Chương 4
“Where is my photograph of your father?”
“What?”
“The one from the coffee table.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“Lauren moved some stuff.”
“Where?”
“I think the hall closet.”
“And my shell bowl?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know much this morning.”
“Can you please stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Making every answer sound like evidence.”
I almost told him about Elaine.
I didn't.
“Are you at the house now?”
“Yes.”
“Is Lauren there?”
“She went out.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
The lie was small.
Marcus had always been terrible at them.
His voice went slightly higher, as though uncertainty lived in his throat.
“Is her car there?”
“No.”
“Then you know she went somewhere.”
“Mom, what is this?”
I let the question sit.
He lowered his voice.
“Look, whatever happened last night, we can fix it.”
“Can we?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the code.”
He went silent.
My anger disappeared so quickly it frightened me.
In its place came something flatter.
“You still won't.”
“This isn't about a number.”
“No.”
I looked at the occupancy agreement.
“It isn't.”
He heard something in my voice.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Don't call anybody.”
That was the first sentence that made my pulse jump.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I know you.”
“No, Marcus.”
I stood.
“Why did you say don't call anybody?”
“I meant don't turn this into some legal thing.”
“You brought up legal.”
“Because you're being weird.”
“Did Lauren file something concerning my house?”
“What?”
“Did she?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
“Marcus.”
“I said no.”
“You didn't even ask what I meant.”
“What could you possibly mean?”
“I don't know.”
He muttered something I couldn't make out.
Then he said, “I have to go.”
“Why?”
“Because I have work.”
“It isn't even eight.”
“I have a call.”
“You're on vacation.”
“We're not on vacation.”
I waited.
He added, more quietly, “Just stay where you are.”
That frightened me more than the rest.
“Why?”
“Please.”
“Marcus.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Then I called Elaine.
She answered immediately.
“Did you find something?”
“My son just told me not to call anybody.”
“Without knowing you called me?”
“Yes.”
“And he told you to stay where you are?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he sound frightened?”
I considered it.
“Yes.”
Elaine was quiet.
“Send me his exact words in an email while they're fresh.”
“Elaine, what did you find?”
“I'm still checking.”
“You found something.”
“I found an instrument recorded against the property last month.”
My knees weakened.
I sat down.
“What kind of instrument?”
“A quitclaim deed.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“To whom?”
“I'm pulling the image now.”
“To whom, Elaine?”
“I don't want to tell you until I can see whether the index is accurate.”
“Tell me what the index says.”
Another pause.
“It lists you as grantor.”
“And?”
“Marcus Wells and Lauren Wells as grantees.”
The motel room seemed to tilt slightly.
I looked at the folder.
At Harold's careful handwriting.
At the property tax receipt with my name printed across the top.
“No.”
“I know.”
“I never signed that.”
“That is why I need the recorded image.”
“I signed one page in June.”
“I heard you.”
“Could that have been it?”
“Possibly.”
“But she told me it was insurance.”
“I heard that too.”
My hand had begun trembling again.
“What does a quitclaim deed do?”
“It transfers whatever ownership interest the grantor has to the grantee, assuming it's validly executed and delivered.”
“So they stole my house.”
“No.”
“Elaine.”
“Do not jump ahead.”
“My name is on a document giving them my house.”
“A recorded document is not automatically a valid document.”
I stood again because sitting felt impossible.
“What makes it valid?”
“Execution requirements matter, notarization matters, witnesses matter, intent matters, fraud matters, and the actual facts matter.”
“Was it notarized?”
“I don't have the image yet.”
“Can you get it?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I'm already in.”
I heard keyboard tapping through the phone.
Then nothing.
Elaine stopped typing.
“Oh.”
My mouth went dry.
“What?”
“Patricia, did you sign anything in front of a notary in June?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone come to your house with Lauren?”
“No.”
“Did you go anywhere with her?”
“No.”
“Did you show identification to anyone?”
“No.”
Elaine's voice changed.
The careful lawyer vanished.
“What is it?”
“The deed has a notary acknowledgment.”
I gripped the edge of the dresser.
“I wasn't in front of a notary.”
“I believe you.”
“Who notarized it?”
“Someone named Darlene Price.”
The name meant nothing.
“Who are the witnesses?”
“There are two.”
“Do I know them?”
“One is Ethan Cole.”
“I don't know him.”
“The other is Rebecca Sloan.”
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
“Neither of them witnessed me sign anything.”
“I need you to be absolutely certain.”
“I am.”
Elaine made a small sound under her breath.
Then she said, “I'm calling the sheriff's office.”
“You said not yet.”
“That was before I saw this.”
My fear sharpened into something almost useful.
“What do I do?”
“Stay at the motel.”
“No.”
“Patricia.”
“My documents are there.”
“What documents?”
“At the beach house.”
“Which ones?”
“I keep old tax files in Harold's desk.”
“Anything with your signature?”
“Probably.”
“Blank signed papers?”
“No.”
“Copies of identification?”
I closed my eyes.
“My passport.”
“Where?”
“Desk drawer.”
“Locked?”
“Yes.”
“Who has the key?”
“I do.”
Then I remembered.
There was another key.
Harold's key.
It had stayed on the little brass ring inside the kitchen junk drawer for years because I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
Lauren had reorganized the kitchen in May.
“Patricia?”
“There may be a second key.”
“Do not go there.”
“What if they take things?”
“We document that.”
“What if they destroy things?”
“We document that too.”
May you like
“How does documenting help me after it's gone?”
“It keeps you from walking into a confrontation when we don't yet know what they're prepared to do.”
