Chương 6
"That sounded wrong."
"I mean you don't have to keep saying you're okay."
Mr. Hanley returned carrying his phone.
"My daughter put one of those doorbell things up."
He tapped the screen with one finger.
"She says I answer the door too fast."
He found the recording after several minutes of complaining about passwords.
The angle showed part of my driveway across the street.
At 2:17 Thursday afternoon, a white rental truck backed toward my garage.
Ryan climbed out.
A man I didn't recognize came from the passenger side.
Then Mom walked into frame carrying a cardboard box.
I asked Mr. Hanley to preserve the clips.
He looked from me to the house.
"Trouble?"
"I don't know yet."
That was becoming my most honest answer.
Daniel wanted copies immediately.
By one o'clock, he had stopped sounding like a lawyer trying to calm an emotional client and started sounding like a man assembling a puzzle he didn't like.
"Do you know what's missing?"
"I haven't lived here full-time for seven months."
"Think about valuable property."
"My jewelry is with me."
"Documents?"
I looked toward the house.
My filing cabinet had been in the office.
I hadn't checked it.
Daniel told me I could inspect my own property but not disturb theirs unnecessarily.
The office had become Ryan's workspace after the catering business failed.
His printer occupied my old desk.
Stacks of invoices and job applications covered the floor.
My filing cabinet remained against the wall.
The top drawer was unlocked.
Tax returns.
Insurance records.
Evan's school files.
The second drawer stuck halfway.
I pulled gently.
Empty hanging folders scraped against metal.
The folder labeled HOUSE was gone.
So was the folder containing older bank statements.
I stepped backward.
Owen saw my face.
"What?"
"Things are missing."
"Which things?"
"Records."
My voice sounded far away.
I checked the small fireproof box beneath the cabinet.
It was still locked.
The spare key was supposed to be taped underneath the desk.
It wasn't there.
"Claire."
"I need a screwdriver."
"Why?"
"There's another key in my car."
"Then why do you need a screwdriver?"
"I don't know."
He put a hand on my shoulder.
"Car."
I found the spare key inside the glove compartment beneath three expired parking receipts.
The fireproof box opened.
Evan's birth certificate was there.
My divorce decree was there.
My passport.
The deed from when Owen and I bought the bungalow, followed by the quitclaim deed transferring his interest to me after the divorce.
Then I reached the bottom.
A sealed envelope held the original copy of my will.
My mother's name appeared on the first page.
Not as a beneficiary.
As successor trustee and financial agent under documents I had signed years earlier when Evan was small and my marriage was failing.
I sat on the office floor.
Owen crouched beside me.
"What is it?"
"I forgot about this."
He read over my shoulder.
The documents were nine years old.
Back then, if something happened to me, Mom had been the obvious person to manage money for Evan until he became an adult.
I had changed my will after the divorce, but I couldn't remember whether I had formally revoked every related authorization.
My stomach turned.
"Could she use this?"
"Ask Daniel."
He answered immediately.
I sent photographs.
The silence while he read them lasted less than a minute.
It felt much longer.
"This is not authority to take over your property while you're competent."
"But?"
"But I need the entire document."
I photographed every page.
The financial power of attorney had a springing provision.
It became effective only if I was determined unable to manage my affairs under the conditions specified in the document.
Daniel asked whether any physician had ever made such a determination.
"No."
"Therapist?"
"No."
"Anyone?"
"No."
I thought of the email.
Claire is in no condition.
A cold sensation moved through me.
"Daniel."
"I'm here."
"Could she be trying to make that provision active?"
"She can't simply declare you incapacitated."
"But could she try?"
"People can try many things."
I stood too fast and hit the desk with my knee.
"She told the buyers I couldn't make decisions."
"Yes."
"She recorded a possession claim."
"Yes."
"She removed documents from the house."
"Possibly."
"And she has an old power of attorney that activates if I'm incapacitated."
Owen took the phone from my hand before I dropped it and put Daniel on speaker.
"What would she need?" he asked.
Daniel didn't answer immediately.
"Under this document, written determinations from two licensed physicians."
My mouth went dry.
"She doesn't have those."
"Not that we know."
My phone chimed.
An email.
The sender was Patrick Bell.
Daniel said, "Don't respond."
I opened it anyway.
Patrick wrote that Linda remained concerned about my emotional and cognitive condition following prolonged caregiver stress and acute bereavement.
He proposed that all real estate activity be suspended for thirty days while the family assessed whether I was presently capable of handling complex financial decisions.
Attached were two documents.
The first was my old power of attorney.
The second was a letter on medical letterhead.
My name appeared in the first sentence.
I read until I reached the signature.
Dr. Samuel Hargrove.
I didn't know anyone named Samuel Hargrove.
Neither did Owen.
Daniel asked me to send him the attachment.
Thirty seconds later, he called back.
"This isn't enough to activate the document."
I breathed again.
"But somebody is trying to make it look like it is."
The letter described me as emotionally unstable, sleep-deprived, confused about dates, and prone to impulsive financial decisions following my son's death.
It recommended postponing "major transactions" until I could be clinically evaluated.
It did not say Dr. Hargrove had examined me.
Buried near the bottom was a phrase I read three times.
Based upon collateral information provided by immediate family.
"They talked to a doctor about me."
Owen's jaw tightened.
"Without talking to you."
Daniel interrupted.
"Claire, I need you to stay focused."
May you like
"I am focused."
"No, you're furious."
