“You hired someone to spy on me?”
“No. You left your phone on my counter more than once. You sent emails from my computer when yours was being repaired. You asked me questions in writing because you wanted answers you could later describe as consent.”
Dex reached for the folder, but I placed my hand over it.
“Not yet.”
His fingers curled against the table.
“Mom, please. Tell me what’s happening.”
I looked at him then. He seemed smaller than he had that morning, though he was a grown man with gray beginning at his temples. His eyes were fixed on me with the frightened confusion of the little boy who used to run to the kitchen whenever thunder shook the windows.
“I found the paperwork Petra wanted me to sign,” I said. “A power of attorney. A medical authorization. A transfer document that would have allowed the house to be sold if a doctor declared me unable to manage my affairs.”
Dex turned toward Petra.
“Is that true?”
Petra’s mouth opened, but no answer came.
Her mother, Lenora, finally looked up from her wineglass.
“Petra,” she said softly.
“Do not start,” Petra snapped.
The children stopped coloring. Six-year-old Mara pressed a purple crayon against the paper until the tip broke.
I reached across the table and touched her wrist.
“Go with your brother into the sitting room,” I said gently. “Take the colored pencils. You can finish your snowmen there.”
Mara looked at her father.
Dex nodded without taking his eyes off Petra.
“Go on,” he said.
The children slid from their chairs. Their socks whispered across the floorboards. When the sitting-room door closed, the dining room seemed to lose its air.
I opened the folder.
Inside were printed emails, copies of forms, notes from Josephine, and a small black flash drive sealed in a plastic sleeve.
“Petra sent this message to a realtor named Carl Venn,” I said. “She asked how quickly the house could be listed if I moved into assisted living.”
Petra’s cheeks flushed.
“That was a preliminary question.”
“You told him the house would be vacant by spring.”
“I was trying to understand our options.”
“You told him the property was practically yours.”
Martin looked at his daughter.
