Chương 4
“I’m aware of that now.”
“Was I restrained by the hospital?”
“No formal restraint order appears in your chart.”
The answer settled heavily.
“Who requested the obstetric consultation?”
Dr. Patel tapped the screen.
“The initial request was entered by an emergency physician overnight after your husband reported that you had been considering termination and wanted to discuss options.”
“I never told him that.”
“Did you tell any medical provider that?”
“No.”
“Did anyone perform a procedure?”
“No.”
My entire body loosened so suddenly I felt dizzy.
My hand went to my abdomen.
Dr. Patel waited.
“So I’m still pregnant.”
“Your ultrasound this morning documented an ongoing pregnancy with cardiac activity.”
I covered my mouth.
Relief came first.
Then anger for being relieved about something that should never have been placed in doubt.
“What morning ultrasound?”
“You were taken to imaging at seven twenty.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“You were drowsy according to the technician’s note.”
Renee looked at Dr. Patel.
“Was consent documented?”
“For the ultrasound, there’s routine verbal consent noted.”
“From me?”
“That is what I need to verify.”
I stared at the tablet.
My life had become a collection of boxes someone else had checked.
Dr. Patel continued carefully.
“There was no termination procedure scheduled, and no consent for one was completed.”
“My husband said it was supposed to happen before a wedding.”
Renee’s pen stopped.
“What wedding?”
“My wedding to Thomas Mercer.”
No one reacted dramatically.
That helped.
Renee simply asked, “Are you currently married?”
“Yes.”
“To the man who was removed from this room?”
“Yes.”
“And do you intend to marry Thomas Mercer?”
“No.”
“Have you ever agreed to divorce your husband?”
“No.”
“Have you ever agreed to marry Mr. Mercer?”
“No.”
Renee wrote something.
“My father brought a dress.”
“I saw the garment bag in the hallway.”
“My mother took my phone.”
“That’s been documented.”
“I think they changed the locks on my house this morning.”
Renee looked up.
“That’s new information.”
I handed her the phone.
She examined the photographs without touching the screen at first.
Then she asked permission to scroll.
When she reached the image of the envelope, she leaned closer.
“Do you recognize this handwriting?”
“It looks like mine.”
“Could you have written his name on an envelope before?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer frustrated me, but it was true.
My father’s company had worked with Mercer for most of my life.
I had written his name on Christmas cards, thank-you notes, seating charts, probably a dozen things I could not remember.
Renee handed the phone back.
“Do you have access to your banking accounts?”
“I should.”
“Your email?”
“Yes.”
“Medical portal?”
“I think so.”
“Do you know whether your husband has your passwords?”
My immediate instinct was no.
Then I remembered the notebook in our kitchen drawer where Daniel and I kept the Wi-Fi password, insurance logins, streaming accounts, and the PIN for the garage.
We had started it after I forgot the electric-company password three months in a row.
“My email password is saved on my home laptop.”
“Is the laptop at the house?”
“Yes.”
“Is your phone email currently accessible?”
I opened it.
The inbox loaded.
Nothing looked obviously wrong.
Then I noticed the trash folder contained more than two hundred messages.
I almost ignored it.
I was terrible about deleting promotional mail.
But the most recent deleted message was from the county recorder’s automated notification system.
The subject line read: DOCUMENT ACCEPTED FOR RECORDING.
I opened it.
My vision sharpened.
The message had arrived at 9:43 that morning.
It referenced a quitclaim deed.
My address appeared beneath it.
“Renee.”
She moved beside me.
I showed her the screen.
She read without touching.
“Do you recognize the filing?”
“No.”
“Did you sign a deed recently?”
“No.”
“Have you refinanced?”
“No.”
“Transferred ownership?”
“No.”
“Can you open the attachment?”
There was a PDF link.
I tapped it.
A scanned document appeared.
The text swam for a moment, so I zoomed in.
My name was there.
Daniel’s name was there.
The transferee was not my father.
It was an LLC I had never heard of.
Mercer Residential Holdings.
At the bottom of the second page were two signatures.
Daniel’s looked normal.
Mine looked almost perfect.
Almost.
I stared at the date.
Three weeks earlier.
I had been in Denver that day for a client presentation.
I knew because I had spent my birthday eating airport pretzels after my flight home was delayed five hours.
“Where was this notarized?”
Renee asked.
I scrolled.
A notary stamp appeared beneath the signatures.
The county listed was ours.
“I wasn’t even in the state.”
Dr. Patel stepped closer but remained far enough away to avoid crowding me.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
I pulled up my calendar.
The Denver trip was there.
Flight confirmation emails were still in my inbox.
Hotel receipt.
Ride-share receipts.
A photograph Tessa had texted me of a hideous cupcake waiting on my desk when I returned.
Renee wrote down the dates.
“Do not alter or forward the original email right now.”
“Why?”
“Because if there is a dispute, preserving what you received matters.”
“A dispute?”
The word sounded absurdly mild.
“Someone forged my signature and took my house.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“We need to be precise.”
I hated her for that for about three seconds.
Then I understood why she was doing it.
Anger wanted certainty.
Reality demanded evidence.
“I want the police.”
Renee nodded.
“I can request an officer to take an initial report.”
“Initial?”
“They may tell you parts of this involve civil issues, and they may need records before determining whether a crime occurred.”
“They forged a deed.”
“If it is forged, that is serious.”
“It is forged.”
“I believe you’re telling me the truth.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
She did not pretend otherwise.
My phone buzzed.
Daniel.
I let it ring.
It stopped.
Then a message appeared.
Please don’t involve police until you understand what your father did.
May you like
Another arrived.
I was trying to protect what was left.
