Behind that power of attorney, there were more pages.
A quitclaim deed. Pre-filled.
My name as grantor. Jason’s name as grantee. For my house. This house.
And behind that, another quitclaim deed. For a property on Seabrook Lane.
The beach house.
My breath stopped. The address was typed perfectly. The parcel number was correct. The legal description was correct, down to the easement Robert had fought the county for in 1998.
Tiffany had gotten it. Somehow, she had found it.
On the last page of that deed, there was another signature line for me. And a notary stamp.
A notary stamp with a name I didn’t recognize. And a date. Three weeks ago.
A date when I was home, alone, and had not seen a notary in over a year.
My hand started to shake. Not from age. From rage so cold it felt like ice water in my veins.
“Where did you get the legal description for the Seabrook property?” I asked, and my voice sounded strange to my own ears. Quiet. Flat.
Tiffany’s eyes flickered. Just for a second, toward the hallway. Toward my bedroom.
“You went through my files,” I said.
“I did not,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
Her mother stepped between us, hands up. “Tiffany was only trying to help organize your affairs. You said you kept everything in that old cedar chest. You showed her.”
“I never showed her anything,” I said.
Alvarez closed the folder. The soft slap of the cardboard made both movers flinch.
“Ma’am,” he said to Tiffany, “who is the notary on these documents?”
Tiffany lifted her chin. “A mobile notary. Margaret requested her. She came to the house.”
“What was her name?” Alvarez asked.
Tiffany blinked. “I don’t remember. It was weeks ago.”
“You’re holding a power of attorney that gives your husband full control over your mother-in-law’s finances and real estate,” Alvarez said, each word even. “You don’t remember the notary’s name?”
The front door was still wide open. Outside, a car pulled up too fast and braked hard on the asphalt. A door slammed.
Jason.
He came up the walk at a half-run, his dress shirt untucked, his face red. He stopped dead when he saw the patrol car, the open truck, the lamp still in the mover’s arms.
“Mom?” he said. He looked at me, then at Tiffany. “Tiff? What is happening? Why are the police here?”
Tiffany turned to him with a performance of relief that made my stomach turn.
“Thank God you’re here,” she said. “Your mother is confused again. She called the police on us. She doesn’t remember signing the papers.”
Jason stared at the gray folder in Alvarez’s hands. His mouth opened. Closed.
