Chương 2
Claire thinks something’s off.
That was all Mark had written.
Daniel handed the envelope to Ortiz.
Inside was a certified copy of the newly recorded deed, a copy of the prior deed transferring the property to Daniel, the preliminary report from the title company, and a photocopy of a document bearing what was supposed to be Charles Mercer’s signature.
Ortiz did not open anything there.
She gave the envelope to her partner.
“Mrs. Mercer, you’re not under arrest. We would like you to come with us voluntarily and answer some questions.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
Daniel almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because his father used to say that exact sentence whenever he was caught doing something small and embarrassing, usually eating food his cardiologist had forbidden.
Margaret had always hated it.
Now she said it perfectly.
Emily rubbed her palms down the front of her jeans.
“Mom, did Dad sign that deed or not?”
Margaret looked at Daniel.
“He poisoned all of you against me.”
“No one answered my calls for six months,” Daniel said.
“You know why.”
“I know what you told them.”
“You took advantage of a sick man.”
Daniel felt something rise behind his ribs.
He swallowed it.
Ortiz watched him.
So did Margaret.
Maybe she wanted him to lose his temper. Maybe she simply knew he might.
Daniel had not slept more than four hours at a time since the title alert had arrived. He had been working twelve-hour days on a hospital renovation forty miles away, then coming home to documents, calls, county records, and the kind of family messages that began with I don’t want to take sides before taking one.
His cheek throbbed.
He pressed his tongue against the small cut inside his mouth.
“Did Dad sign it?” Emily asked again.
Margaret turned toward her.
“There were things happening between your father and me that none of you understood.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He regretted what Daniel made him do.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t make him do anything.”
“You put papers in front of him after his stroke.”
“Eight months after his stroke.”
“As though that makes it better.”
“He had passed two capacity evaluations.”
“Because you arranged them.”
“The lawyer arranged them.”
“Your lawyer.”
“Dad’s lawyer.”
Margaret looked at Ortiz.
“You see? This is what he does. He gets very calm and makes you sound crazy.”
Daniel turned away.
Rain ran from the roof into the gutter beside him.
He had promised himself he would not defend three years of his life on the front steps.
Still, the accusation landed where she knew it would.
His father had been recovering from a moderate stroke when he signed the original deed transferring the lake property to Daniel. His speech had been slower then. His right hand sometimes trembled. He tired easily. He repeated stories.
He also beat Daniel at gin rummy four nights in a row and spent two hours arguing with an electrician over six recessed lights he believed were unnecessary.
Capacity, Daniel had learned, was not the same thing as strength.
Margaret had never accepted the distinction.
Ortiz said, “Mrs. Mercer, if you’d like an attorney present before speaking with us, that is your right.”
“Am I being accused of something?”
“We’re investigating a potentially fraudulent property filing.”
“That’s absurd.”
Mark finally spoke.
“Margaret.”
She turned.
He nodded toward the moving truck.
“You told us the lawyer cleared all this.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed.
“He did.”
“What lawyer?”
“My lawyer.”
“You said Daniel’s lawyer admitted the deed wasn’t valid.”
“I said the matter had been handled.”
“No. You said his lawyer admitted Charles never legally transferred the house.”
“Mark, this is family.”
“I married into it. That stopped being a useful distinction about ten years ago.”
Claire looked down.
A brief, startled sound escaped her. Almost a laugh.
Nobody joined her.
The moving truck driver approached from the cab, rainwater beading on his shoulders. He looked at Daniel, then Margaret, then the two detectives.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just need to know if we’re unloading or reloading.”
It was such an ordinary question that for a moment no one seemed capable of answering it.
Daniel looked at the boxes already under the portico.
Margaret had labeled them in thick blue marker.
KITCHEN.
FRONT ROOM.
DAD’S BOOKS.
That last one bothered him.
He looked away.
Ortiz said, “That’s not our decision.”
Margaret drew herself upright.
“Continue unloading.”
Daniel said, “No.”
Her head snapped toward him.
He took his keys from his pocket.
“This is still my property until a court says otherwise.”
“You don’t get to throw your mother into the rain.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re stopping my movers.”
“Yes.”
“You planned this.”
“No.”
“You had police waiting.”
“The title company reported the deed before they called me.”
She stared at him.
Daniel wished, suddenly and stupidly, that she would hit him again.
The first slap had been easy.
This was not.
He could still remember her sitting beside his bed when he was eight and had pneumonia, changing the damp towel on his forehead every twenty minutes because she did not trust the hospital ice pack. He remembered her driving forty minutes back to his college dorm because he had forgotten a suit jacket before a scholarship dinner. He remembered the look on her face when he told her he was divorcing at thirty-one. She had not asked what his wife had done.
She had asked if he had eaten.
Human memory was badly organized.
It refused to sort people into useful categories.
Emily stepped between them.
“Mom, you’re coming home with me tonight.”
“I am not.”
“Then a hotel.”
“This is my house.”
“Not tonight.”
Margaret looked at her daughter as if Emily had slapped her.
Daniel saw it.
So did Emily.
“That’s what you wanted,” Margaret said softly, turning back to Daniel. “You wanted them to choose.”
“No.”
“They were all I had left.”
Claire’s head lifted.
“We’re standing right here.”
May you like
Margaret blinked.
Claire rarely confronted anyone. When they were children, she had survived fights by disappearing into doorways and letting louder people burn themselves out.
