“He only signed the power of attorney.”
“I know.”
“He thought it was for repairs.”
“I heard him.”
“He should have read it.”
“He should have trusted you less.”
Her eyes flashed.
The front door opened. Two officers entered, followed by Nora’s broker, a nervous man in a gray suit. Nora spoke to them in a low voice while the broker kept glancing at Lauren.
I expected her to begin crying. Instead, she walked to the sideboard and picked up a framed photograph of my wife.
It showed us on the front porch, younger by decades, my wife’s hand resting on my shoulder.
Lauren studied it.
“She hated me,” Lauren said.
“She was cautious.”
“She told Michael not to marry me.”
“She told him to be sure.”
“She said I was looking for a house.”
I took the photograph from her.
“She said you were afraid. That is different.”
Lauren’s mouth tightened. “She was right.”
The police officer asked to see the documents.
Lauren handed him the folder. Her fingers did not release it at first. When she finally let go, the movement was so abrupt that the papers slipped to the floor.
One document landed face up.
It was the deed.
The forged signature sat beneath my printed name.
The officer picked it up carefully.
“This was filed with the county?”
The broker answered. “A transfer was recorded last week.”
“Who submitted it?”
Lauren said, “The attorney handled that.”
“Name?”
