On my first night inside the $4.8 million Malibu beach house I bought with my own money, my mother-in-law called and said, “We’re moving in tomorrow, Marcus said it’s fine, and if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else.”

“Send me everything immediately. My attorney, David Chen Williams, needs to see this.”

I gave him David’s contact information.

“And Mr. Morrison, the person who submitted that application is at my gate right now trying to break in.”

“Ma’am, forging signatures on loan documents is a federal crime. We’re obligated to report this to the FBI.”

On my security monitor, Eleanor was now screaming at the guards, waving papers in their faces. Behind her, a moving truck waited, along with three women I recognized from her charity committee.

David’s phone buzzed with the bank’s email. He opened the attachments, and we both stared at the evidence. Eleanor had signed my name on five different documents, claiming sole ownership of the property. The bank security footage attached to the email showed her clearly at the desk, pen in hand.

“This is incredibly stupid,” David said. “She did this in full view of cameras, with witnesses, leaving a paper trail. It’s like she thought rules don’t apply to her.”