Chương 3
He ate another fry.
"Because I'm trying very hard not to."
I leaned back in the chair.
"I told her the movers are coming."
"Are they?"
"Eight tomorrow."
"Then I'll come."
"You fly back to Denver tomorrow afternoon."
"My flight is at four."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
That answer nearly undid me.
Not You're strong.
Not Family helps.
Not You need me.
Just I know.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A new message from an unfamiliar Sacramento number filled the screen.
Mrs. Mercer, my name is Patrick Bell, and I represent Linda Mercer regarding her tenancy at the Sacramento property.
Owen watched my face.
"What?"
I handed him the phone.
He read the message once, then set it down carefully.
"Well," he said, "I guess Hawaii has lawyers."
I stared at my mother's name in the message.
Something cold moved beneath the exhaustion.
She hadn't contacted a lawyer after I threatened her.
The timing was wrong.
Patrick Bell's message referenced the buyers' closing date and the occupancy agreement in enough detail that he had clearly seen documents.
Mom had prepared for this before our phone call.
Maybe before Evan's funeral.
I reopened her email to the buyers.
This time, I stopped reading it as a grieving daughter.
I read it as the owner of the house.
Near the bottom, one sentence caught me.
We have already taken the necessary steps to protect Linda's continuing right of occupancy.
We.
I had assumed she meant Tessa and Ryan.
Now I wasn't sure.
Owen leaned over my shoulder.
"What necessary steps?"
"I don't know."
I opened the county property records website.
Then I stopped.
My hands had begun shaking again.
Not from grief this time.
From the first clear understanding that my mother had done more than send an email.
"Claire?"
I looked at Owen.
"Tomorrow isn't just a walkthrough."
Outside, someone shouted for a cab, and a siren moved west toward the hospital where my son had died.
I turned the laptop toward me and began searching my own address.
The county site took long enough to load that Owen finished half the fries before the search results appeared.
My name was still listed as the owner.
I exhaled.
"That's good, right?" he asked.
"I think so."
"You're going to need a more reassuring voice if you ever become a surgeon."
I clicked through the recorded documents anyway.
The deed was mine.
The mortgage was mine.
There was no second deed, no transfer, nothing that suggested my mother had somehow managed to claim ownership of a house I had bought eleven years earlier.
Then I found a document recorded three days before Evan died.
It was labeled Notice of Claim of Right to Possession.
I stared at the date.
Owen stopped eating.
"What is that?"
"I don't know."
The document itself wasn't available as an immediate image, only an index entry with my address, Linda's name, and a recording number.
I copied the number into an email to Daniel.
My phone rang before I could send it.
Patrick Bell.
I let it go to voicemail.
He called again thirty seconds later.
"Persistent," Owen said.
"Runs in the family, apparently."
The voicemail arrived.
I played it on speaker.
Patrick's voice was pleasant and measured.
He said he hoped we could avoid "unnecessary escalation" and that his client believed there had been serious misunderstandings regarding the nature of her occupancy.
He asked that I suspend tomorrow's movers until the parties could discuss an orderly resolution.
When the message ended, Owen looked at me.
"That's lawyer for don't touch anything."
"I gathered."
"Call your lawyer."
"I emailed him."
"Call."
"It's almost ten."
"Claire."
"I paid him for two hours, Owen."
He blinked at me.
It sounded ridiculous once spoken aloud.
My son had been buried that morning, my mother had apparently recorded something against my property, and I was protecting twelve billable minutes.
Daniel answered on the fourth ring with the muffled sound of a television behind him.
I apologized for the hour.
He said, "Don't apologize yet," and asked what happened.
When I read him the recording number, the television went silent.
"Do not send the movers inside tomorrow morning until I see that document."
My stomach tightened.
"Can she stop the sale?"
"Let's not get ahead of what we know."
"What does that notice mean?"
"It can mean several things depending on what was actually filed and why."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it's the answer you get before I read it."
I hated him a little for being calm.
I also trusted him more because of it.
He asked me to forward Patrick's voicemail and every agreement involving my mother, Tessa, and Ryan.
Then he asked a question no one had asked before.
"Did Linda ever pay rent?"
"No."
"Anything labeled rent?"
"No."
"Cash?"
"No."
"Mortgage payments?"
"No."
"Property taxes?"
"No."
"Repairs?"
I hesitated.
"Ryan replaced the garbage disposal."
"Who paid for it?"
"I did."
"Utilities?"
"They were supposed to."
"Supposed to isn't paid."
"I paid them."
Owen pushed the fries toward me.
I ignored him.
Daniel continued.
"Did any of them receive mail there?"
"Yes."
"Driver's license address?"
"Probably."
"How long have they occupied the property?"
"About seven months."
"And the temporary occupancy agreement was signed after you accepted the purchase offer?"
"Yes."
"Send me everything."
"What do I do tomorrow?"
"Meet your agent outside."
"And the movers?"
"Tell them to wait."
"That costs money."
"So does litigation."
After we hung up, I ate one cold fry.
It tasted mostly of salt.
Owen watched me chew.
"Good?"
"Terrible."
He ate one.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moved the bag.
At eleven thirty, he fell asleep sitting upright against the wall near Evan's bed.
I covered him with the blanket from the sofa and spent another hour collecting documents.
The process became mechanical.
Mortgage statement.
Utility bills.
Occupancy agreement.
Texts.
Emails.
The notice to vacate.
May you like
Proof of delivery.
Every time I found something useful, I put it in Daniel's folder.
