PART 12 — THE WITNESS

Thomas didn’t speak for several seconds.

Then he said, “Mark, don’t sign anything. Don’t write on it. Put it back exactly where you found it.”

“I already touched it.”

“That’s fine. Just photograph every page.”

I sat on the edge of my bed.

Another document.

Another version of my signature.

Another piece of my life apparently decided without me.

Mark sent the photographs.

Thomas opened the first one.

“It’s dated October eighth.”

The same day I was in Charleston.

He enlarged the signature page.

There was my name.

Dorothy Elaine Harper.

Beneath it was the imitation of my signature.

Then Thomas’s finger stopped.

“Oh.”

“What?”

He handed me the phone.

Below my signature were two additional lines.

Witness One.

A name I didn’t recognize.

Then:

Witness Two.

I knew that one.

I read it twice.

Bruce Keller.

The realtor.

I looked at Thomas.

“Bruce witnessed me sign something while I was three hundred miles away?”

“According to this document.”

My anger finally arrived.

Not loud anger.

Not throwing-things anger.

The kind Raymond used to call dangerous anger.

The kind that makes you very calm.

Thomas continued examining the photographs.

Then his eyebrows drew together.

“What now?”

“The first witness.”

“Who is she?”

“Melissa Grant.”

I shook my head.

“I’ve never heard that name.”

Thomas searched through the Silver Meadows paperwork.

Then stopped.

He turned one page toward me.

At the bottom was the facility contact Alicia had listed.

Melissa Grant — Admissions Coordinator.

I stared at it.

Alicia’s cousin.

The one from the pocket dial.

Family discount.

Of course.

Thomas didn’t know what I’d heard that morning.

Not yet.

But I did.

“Do you know her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever met her?”

“Never.”

Thomas wrote the name on his legal pad.

Then his phone buzzed.

Another photograph from Mark.

He opened it.

His expression hardened.

“What?”

“The notarization.”

I leaned closer.

The document carried a notary stamp.

A name.

A commission number.

A date.

October eighth.

Thomas immediately photographed the screen with his own phone.

“Do you recognize the notary?”

“No.”

He stood.

“I do.”

That surprised me.

“Who?”

“Someone Raymond refused to use years ago.”

“Why?”

Thomas looked at the name again.

“Because Raymond didn’t trust him.”

That sounded like my husband.

Raymond trusted slowly and remembered forever.

Thomas put his coat on.

“I’m going downtown.”

“Where?”

“To verify the notarization and obtain certified copies of your existing documents.”

I stood too.

“I’m coming.”

“Dorothy—”

“My name is on those papers.”

He studied me for a moment.

Then nodded.

“Get your coat.”

Before we reached the hallway, my phone rang.

Mark.

I answered.

“Mom.”

Something about his voice stopped me.

“What happened?”

“Alicia left again.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

Then he said:

“But she took the envelope.”

Thomas stepped closer.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you photograph every page?”

“I think so.”

Thomas exhaled.

“Good.”

Then Mark added:

“There was something else inside that I didn’t understand until after she left.”

“What?”

“A receipt.”

“For what?”

“Storage.”

I frowned.

“Storage?”

“A unit rented three months ago.”

Thomas asked, “Whose name?”

“Alicia’s.”

That didn’t seem important.

Not until Mark continued.

“I’ve never heard of the place.”

“What place?” I asked.

“North County Storage.”

Then silence.

“And Mom?”

“Yes?”

“The receipt lists what she put into the unit when she rented it.”

I felt Thomas watching me.

Mark’s next words came slowly.

“Furniture. Twelve boxes. Kitchenware. Family photographs.”

I frowned.

“So?”

Mark swallowed.

“Mom…”

“The inventory says the furniture and boxes were collected from your address.”

I stopped moving.

My house.

Three months ago.

Someone had already begun making an inventory of my belongings.

Maybe even removing them.

And suddenly I wasn’t wondering only what Alicia planned to take from me.

I was wondering what she had already taken.