Chapter 2 - The Call That Changed Everything
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the dent Evan had made years ago while helping his father repair a chair.
Now my son had stood on my porch and asked me to leave it behind.
Daniel told me not to confront Brooke again until he had a certified copy. He would notify the title office and county recorder, then ask the lender to freeze the transaction. He could not promise immediate protection, but he could make a sale harder.
"Did you give Evan permission to handle any property paperwork?" he asked.
"No. He asked for a scan of my driver's license last week. He said his insurance company needed proof of address for a family policy."
"Did you send it?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes."
"All right. Don't punish yourself for trusting your child. We need facts now."
After we hung up, I checked the small office Robert had built off the living room. The trust binder belonged on the top shelf beside the tax records. The shelf was empty. I searched the desk, filing cabinet, and box of papers under the window. Nothing.
The doorbell rang again. Evan stood alone, shoulders hunched against the cold. I left the chain on and opened the door a few inches.
"I just want to talk," he said.
"Then talk from there."
His face tightened. "Brooke's upset. She's under a lot of pressure. We thought you might agree to move in with Aunt Denise for a while."
"Who is we? You or Brooke?"
He rubbed his forehead. "The paperwork was supposed to make things simpler."
"What paperwork?"
He glanced over his shoulder as if Brooke might be listening from the car. "I didn't know she was going to say it like that."
"But you knew she was going to tell me to leave my own house."
He had no answer. That was answer enough.
When he left, I went back to the kitchen and checked my email. There was a message from a title company I had never heard of, thanking me for my cooperation and confirming a buyer's walk-through for Thursday morning.
Thursday was two days away.
The attachment contained the property description, closing timeline, and a digital image of my signature beneath a paragraph granting Evan full ownership.
The signature was close enough to fool a stranger, but it was not mine.
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At the bottom of the page was a name I recognized from a birthday card Brooke had once given me: the notary who had supposedly witnessed my signature was her former office manager.
That woman had died eighteen months earlier.
