Michael closed his eyes.
I knew that expression. He had worn it at eight years old after breaking the neighbor’s window. He had worn it at seventeen after wrecking my truck. Not the expression of an innocent man, but of someone who had waited too long to tell the truth.
“What did you sign?” I asked.
His eyes opened.
“A limited authorization. Lauren said it was for the insurance company.”
“On my house?”
“She said the insurer needed me listed as an occupant and wanted confirmation that we could handle repairs if you were hospitalized.”
I stared at him.
“I have never been hospitalized.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice came out low. “You know because I told you when I had the valve replacement. You know because you drove me home. You know because you were there.”
Michael looked down.
Nora removed a second document from the folder. “Mr. Hale, the power of attorney names Michael as your agent for property transactions. It was signed three weeks ago.”
The name struck me harder than the forged deed.
Michael had been in my kitchen three weeks ago. He had brought groceries and fixed the loose hinge on the pantry door. He had stood beside the sink while I made coffee.
He had not mentioned a power of attorney.
Lauren’s fingers tightened over the folder. “He didn’t know what I was going to do with it.”
Michael turned toward her.
“You said it was temporary.”
“You signed it.”
“You told me it was for the insurance claim.”
“You should have read it.”
The words fell into the room with a horrible finality.
Nora took a step back. “I need to call my broker.”
“You need to call the police,” I said.
Lauren’s face changed. The fear vanished, replaced by a hard, almost practiced stillness.
“Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.”
“You forged my name.”
“We transferred a house that was already going to Michael.”
“It was not yours to transfer.”
