Chương 8
“Especially the woman whose house she planned to borrow against.”
“Mom.”
The shame in his voice was almost physical.
I sat again.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I kept thinking if I helped her get through one more thing, we'd be okay.”
There it was.
Not greed.
Not some master plan.
Something sadder.
The same weakness in a more expensive suit.
“What did you help her with?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“From where?”
“Our savings.”
“All of it?”
“Most.”
I stared at the spill creeping toward the edge of Elaine's printed email.
I pulled the paper away.
Marcus said, “I didn't know about the deed until last week.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I don't know.”
That answer hurt more than if he had demanded it.
“I want to.”
He made a small choking sound.
“I know.”
A pounding came through his end of the call.
Not on my door.
His.
Marcus stopped breathing.
Then a man's voice, distant through the phone, called, “Sheriff's office.”
Marcus whispered, “They're here.”
“Open the door.”
“Mom.”
“Open it.”
I heard footsteps.
A lock turned.
Voices blurred.
Then Marcus said, “They want me to step outside.”
“Do what they say.”
The call disconnected.
I was still holding the phone when Elaine called three minutes later.
Her first words were, “We found Darlene Price.”
“Who is she?”
“She works part-time at Coastal Closing Support.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“And according to the office manager, Lauren Wells was there yesterday morning asking for a copy of the original file.”
For a moment I forgot the rest of the sentence.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Ten seventeen in the morning.”
That was hours before I reached the beach house.
I sat down slowly.
“So she already knew something was wrong.”
“Possibly.”
“She changed the alarm code the same day.”
“That timing matters.”
“What did she ask for?”
“The complete file.”
“Did they give it to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The office manager says Lauren was not listed as the client who ordered the deed preparation.”
I stared at the motel wall.
“Then who was?”
“That is the interesting part.”
“Elaine.”
“The client name in their system is Patricia Wells.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course it is.”
“The email address is not yours.”
“What is it?”
Elaine read it to me.
The first part used my name and birth year.
The domain was a free email service.
“I have never had that email address.”
“I know.”
“What phone number?”
She gave me one with a 850 area code.
I didn't recognize it.
“Lauren's?”
“No.”
“Marcus's?”
“No.”
“Do they know who it belongs to?”
“They won't disclose more until law enforcement contacts them formally.”
I leaned back against the headboard.
The stale Danish sat open on its wrapper.
A fly had found it.
I waved the fly away and immediately felt ridiculous.
Someone might have used my identity to put a quarter-million-dollar debt against my house, and I was defending a cheese Danish.
“Elaine, how did they verify me?”
“That is what we need to know.”
“Wouldn't they require identification?”
“They should require documentation.”
“That's not the same answer.”
“No.”
I hated legal language because it could make terror sound administrative.
“What happens to the loan application?”
“Do you know whether any funds were disbursed?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Can we stop it?”
“If it has not funded, we can send immediate notice disputing authority and ownership representations.”
“And if it has?”
“Then it gets more complicated.”
“How much more?”
“Patricia.”
“I want the ugly version.”
Elaine sighed.
“The lender may claim it relied on recorded documents and representations made during underwriting.”
“But the deed is fraudulent.”
“If fraud is established, that changes everything.”
“Changes is not erases.”
“No.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
Harold used to say a house was never just lumber and plumbing.
It was paperwork with a roof over it.
I had always thought he was joking.
“What do you need from me?”
“Written statement today.”
“Fine.”
“Copies of your driver's license and passport, if we can locate the passport.”
“Fine.”
“Signature samples from before June.”
“I have checks.”
“Good.”
“Tax returns?”
“Those too.”
“Anything showing where you were on June eighteenth could help.”
“I was home.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
I thought about it.
“My neighbor, Jean, brought over zucchini.”
“What time?”
“Late afternoon.”
“Before or after Lauren left?”
“After, I think.”
“Write that down.”
I pulled the motel notepad toward me.
The pen barely worked.
I scribbled Jean's name until ink appeared.
Elaine said, “And Patricia?”
“Yes?”
“Do not contact the notary yourself.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was thinking many things.”
“I know.”
After we hung up, I called Jean.
She answered with a mouth full of something.
“Pat?”
“Are you eating?”
“Toast.”
“Good.”
“Why do you sound strange?”
“I need to ask you about June eighteenth.”
Silence.
Then, “Should I know what happened June eighteenth?”
“You brought me zucchini.”
“I bring you zucchini every summer.”
“Do you remember the day Lauren came over with paperwork?”
Jean stopped chewing.
“Oh.”
That single sound made my spine straighten.
“You remember?”
“I remember Lauren.”
“Why?”
“She parked halfway across my driveway.”
Of course.
Jean could forget a birthday but not a parking offense.
“What time was that?”
“Afternoon.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Maybe three.”
“Did you see anyone else with her?”
“No.”
“Did you see a notary?”
“What does a notary look like?”
“Like a person.”
“Then possibly half the neighborhood.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Jean's voice softened.
“Pat, what happened?”
“I signed something I shouldn't have.”
“Money?”
“House.”
There was a long silence.
Then she said, “Do you need me there?”
The offer hit me harder than sympathy would have.
“Not yet.”
“Do you need me to remember more?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
I could hear her moving around.
A drawer opened.
“What are you doing?”
“Calendar.”
“You still use the paper one?”
May you like
“It doesn't sell my information.”
Jean had opinions about technology that grew stronger whenever she couldn't find her password.
