I had asked him to collect me at eight and explain the documents he had given me. I had meant to do it quietly, after dinner. Now he was twenty minutes early, and the hand holding his briefcase was rigid.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A release of your mortgage on this property. Filed last week.”
Ethan gripped the back of his fallen chair.
Inside my envelope lay the original loan agreement, the recorded mortgage, and a statement of the outstanding balance. William and I had kept separate investment accounts as well as joint ones. The money for this house had come from mine.
Ethan had told me the payments were current.
Mercer had discovered otherwise while reviewing our affairs after the funeral.
“I never released anything.”
“I know. I called the notary listed here. She retired two years ago. She says the stamp number is hers, but she did not witness this signature.”
Khloe set down her glass with extraordinary care.
“This sounds like something for an office.”
“It is,” Mercer said. “I came to make sure my client was somewhere she could speak freely.”
My client.
Those two words loosened something beneath my ribs.
One of the men at the table pushed his chair back. The other guests followed him, murmuring about coats and cars. Khloe reached toward the woman from the pantry.
“Lydia, you understand how confused people can become after a loss.”
Lydia looked at me.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” I said, surprising myself.
When the others had gone, Mercer put the document beside the white roses.
“A lender contacted my office this afternoon. They were verifying whether I had prepared this release. Ethan and Khloe have applied to refinance the house without disclosing your existing claim.”
“The house has increased in value,” Khloe said. “There would have been enough for everybody.”
“Then why forge my signature?”
Her eyes moved toward Ethan.
He bent to raise the chair. It took him two attempts.
“I was going to put it back,” he said.
I looked at the man whose first bank account I had opened with birthday money and a five-dollar bill of my own.
“How much?”
“The proposed loan is eight hundred thousand dollars,” Mercer answered. “It has not funded. The lender has suspended the application.”
Eight hundred thousand.
