Chương 3
At 7:00 the next morning, I called Elaine.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Patricia?”
“I'm sorry it's early.”
“You're never up to anything good when you start with that.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“My son and his wife changed the alarm code at the beach house and told me I need their approval to visit.”
There was a pause.
Not shock.
Not sympathy.
Just the silence of a lawyer moving pieces around in her head.
“Did you authorize any change to their occupancy arrangement?”
“No.”
“Have they ever paid rent?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything else?”
“No.”
“Did you give either of them any ownership interest?”
“Absolutely not.”
Another pause followed.
Then Elaine asked a question that made me sit upright on the edge of the bed.
“Patricia, have Marcus or Lauren ever asked you to sign anything concerning that property since they moved in?”
I looked at the motel desk where the papers lay in uneven stacks, as if the answer might be hiding between them.
“No,” I said.
Then I stopped.
Elaine heard it.
“What?”
“There was something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Lauren brought me a packet in June.”
Elaine's voice sharpened.
“What packet?”
“She said their insurance company needed confirmation that they were staying at the house.”
“Did you sign it?”
“I signed one page.”
There was a silence long enough for the air conditioner to click off.
“What did the page say?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Patricia.”
“I know.”
“Did you read it?”
“I skimmed it.”
Elaine let out a slow breath.
“She told me it was just for the condo claim.”
“Do you still have a copy?”
“No.”
“Did she leave the packet with you?”
“No.”
I rubbed my forehead.
The memory came back in pieces now.
Lauren had arrived at my house carrying iced coffee and complaining about an adjuster who kept losing documents.
She had stood beside my kitchen counter while I was cutting peaches.
There had been yellow tabs.
Three or four signatures, she had said.
I had only signed one because my hand was sticky and I told her I would read the rest later.
She had laughed and said the rest were duplicates.
At the time, it had seemed harmless.
Now the harmlessness felt manufactured.
“Elaine, what are you thinking?”
“I'm thinking I want you to do nothing until I see what was filed.”
“Filed where?”
“Property records, possibly.”
My stomach tightened.
“You think she changed the deed?”
“I don't know.”
“Can someone do that with one signature?”
“Not properly.”
That was not the same as no.
Elaine continued.
“But people attempt all kinds of things when they think a document won't be examined closely.”
I stood and began pacing the narrow strip between the bed and the dresser.
The carpet had a brown stain shaped vaguely like Florida.
“What do I do?”
“First, send me photographs of every page in that occupancy agreement.”
“I already have it.”
“Good.”
“Then?”
“Then I'm checking the county recorder.”
“What about the house?”
“Do not go over there alone.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You sound like you were.”
“I was planning to go over there with coffee and maternal disappointment.”
“That is still alone.”
Despite the knot in my chest, I smiled.
Elaine had known me for nineteen years and had perfected the tone of a woman who expected me to be sensible only after exhausting every alternative.
“Good.”
“And the sheriff?”
“Not yet.”
That surprised me.
I had imagined uniforms, official papers, Lauren's expression changing in the doorway.
Instead, Elaine sounded cautious.
“We need to know whether we're dealing with a family access dispute, a document problem, or both.”
“They are guests.”
“Yes.”
“I can revoke permission.”
“Yes.”
“Then why not do it now?”
“Because if somebody has created or recorded paperwork suggesting otherwise, I want the situation documented before anyone starts moving property or destroying evidence.”
The word evidence chilled me in a way eviction never had.
“Lauren wouldn't destroy anything.”
Elaine didn't answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
I spent the next twenty minutes photographing documents on the motel bedspread.
The light was terrible.
My hands kept casting shadows across the pages.
I finally carried everything to the little table near the window and used a Gideon Bible from the nightstand to hold the agreement flat.
Harold would have found that disrespectful.
Then he would have used it anyway.
At 7:43, Marcus called again.
This time I answered.
“Mom.”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Where are you?”
“At a motel.”
“You should've stayed here.”
“Without knowing the alarm code?”
“Jesus.”
“Is that code confidential from him too?”
“Can you stop?”
There it was.
Not anger exactly.
Pressure.
The brittle tone he had used as a teenager whenever he had made a mess and needed me to pretend the mess was smaller.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Why did Lauren have me sign insurance papers in June?”
Nothing came from his end for several seconds.
Then I heard a cabinet door close.
“What are you talking about?”
“She brought papers to my house.”
“I don't know anything about that.”
“She said your condo insurer needed proof that you were staying here.”
“Our insurer did need proof.”
“Did she ask me to sign anything related to the beach house?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Mom, I don't manage every piece of paperwork Lauren handles.”
That sounded like Marcus.
It also sounded like something he had practiced saying.
“Did you change the alarm code?”
He sighed.
“Lauren did.”
“You told me last night you knew.”
“I knew after she changed it.”
“That isn't what you said.”
“I said yes because you were standing there making everything a courtroom.”
I closed my eyes.
“When did you find out?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Before I arrived?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't tell her to change it back?”
“I told her we needed to talk about it.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“Mom.”
“Did you tell her to change it back?”
“No.”
May you like
I stared at the floral curtains.
Outside, a truck backed up with a repetitive electronic beep.
