Chương 5
I hated that she was right.
I hated even more that she had to say prepared to do about my son.
“I want the sheriff there when I revoke their permission.”
“That may happen.”
“Today.”
“Likely.”
“And I want them out.”
“That is more complicated.”
“They are guests.”
“They may claim residency.”
“They signed the agreement.”
“Yes, which helps.”
“They don't pay rent.”
“Also helpful.”
“They forged a deed.”
“Potentially.”
“Potentially?”
“We are not skipping the word until an investigator has the evidence.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Harold used to tease me for wanting every problem to have a clean noun.
Leak.
Cancer.
Debt.
Grief.
As if naming something meant you had already cornered it.
Elaine continued.
“I am sending the recorded deed to you now.”
My phone chimed.
I opened the email.
The document looked ordinary.
That was the worst part.
There were margins, legal descriptions, stamps, signatures, boxes, and dates.
It looked boring enough to ruin a life.
Then I saw my name.
Below it was a signature resembling mine.
Resembling was too generous.
It was my signature.
The looping P.
The short slash at the end of Wells.
My stomach turned.
“I signed that.”
Elaine didn't say anything.
“I signed that exact signature.”
“You may have signed a page that was later attached to different content.”
“There was text above it.”
“Do you remember what?”
“No.”
“Look at the formatting around the signature block.”
I enlarged the image.
The type above my signature seemed slightly darker than the rest.
Maybe.
Or maybe fear was making me invent clues.
Elaine said, “Do not make conclusions from the scan.”
“What does the date say?”
“June eighteenth.”
“That was the day she came over.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“Afternoon.”
“The notary acknowledgment says you appeared before Darlene Price that same day.”
“I didn't.”
A knock sounded at my motel door.
I froze.
“Elaine.”
“What?”
“Someone's at the door.”
“Do not open it.”
The knock came again.
Then a man's voice said, “Mrs. Wells?”
My heart began pounding.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Walton County Sheriff's Office.”
Elaine exhaled.
“I asked dispatch to send someone to you.”
I crossed the room and looked through the peephole.
A uniformed deputy stood outside.
Behind him, in the motel parking lot, a woman in purple reading glasses was pretending not to watch from the office.
I opened the door with the chain still latched.
The deputy held up his identification.
“Mrs. Patricia Wells?”
“Yes.”
“My name's Deputy Calvin Reed.”
I looked at the badge, then at his face.
He was perhaps fifty, broad through the shoulders, with sun-reddened skin and the patient expression of a man accustomed to meeting people during the worst hour of their week.
“Your attorney contacted us about a possible fraudulent property document and an access dispute.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the chain.
“You can keep that on until you're comfortable.”
That small courtesy steadied me.
I closed the door, removed the chain, and let him in.
My motel room suddenly felt absurdly crowded with a deputy, legal papers, groceries still sitting in my car, and the Gideon Bible holding open the agreement.
Deputy Reed noticed the papers without touching them.
“Tell me what happened from the beginning.”
I started with the alarm code.
He stopped me twice to clarify times.
He asked whether Marcus or Lauren had ever threatened me.
He asked whether either had a financial interest in the house.
He asked about mail, utilities, driver licenses, voter registration, and how long they had actually been staying there.
When I mentioned Lauren receiving bank mail at the property, he wrote something down.
“What kind of bank mail?”
“I don't know.”
“Statements?”
“Maybe.”
“Mortgage?”
“I don't think so.”
“Any loan documents come there?”
“I never opened her mail.”
“Good.”
I almost laughed.
It was the first uncomplicated thing anyone had said all morning.
Deputy Reed looked at the recorded deed Elaine had emailed.
His expression did not change.
“Attorney says you dispute this signature being given for this document.”
“I signed something that day.”
“But not knowingly this?”
“No.”
“And you did not appear before this notary?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“That distinction matters.”
My phone buzzed.
Marcus.
The deputy saw the name on the screen.
“You want to answer?”
I looked at him.
“Should I?”
“Your choice.”
I answered.
“Mom.”
Marcus was breathing hard.
“Where are you?”
I looked at Deputy Reed.
He gave no reaction.
“At the motel.”
“Are you alone?”
That question changed the temperature in the room.
“Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“No.”
Marcus went silent.
Then he whispered, “You called somebody.”
I looked down at the forged deed on the desk.
“Yes,” I said.
And for the first time in my life, my son hung up on me before I could hear whether he was angry or afraid.
Deputy Reed watched my face after the call ended, but he did not ask what I was feeling.
Instead, he said, “Do you have any reason to believe your son knew about the deed before today?”
I looked at the dark phone screen in my hand.
“I don't know.”
“That answer is okay.”
“I don't like it.”
“Most true answers aren't very satisfying.”
I sat on the edge of the bed again.
The mattress groaned under me.
“My son is not a criminal.”
Deputy Reed rested his notebook on one knee.
“I didn't say he was.”
“I know.”
I rubbed my thumb over the seam of my phone case.
“He's weak sometimes.”
The words came out harsher than I intended.
“He avoids things.”
The deputy waited.
“He thinks if he doesn't choose a side, then he hasn't hurt anybody.”
I looked toward the window.
“But not choosing is still choosing, isn't it?”
Deputy Reed gave the smallest shrug.
“Depends who gets left standing outside.”
That landed harder than I expected.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was a text from Marcus.
Do not go to the house.
Then another.
May you like
Please trust me for once.
I showed the messages to Deputy Reed.
