“What exactly did I marry?”
I didn’t answer.
He was my son.
I wanted to tell him Alicia had manipulated him.
I wanted to tell him he’d made a terrible mistake and we would fix it.
But mothers can love their children without lying to them.
So I said:
“I don’t know, Mark.”
Thomas closed his briefcase.
“But we’re going to find out carefully.”
Mark looked toward the door.
“I need to go home.”
Thomas stopped him.
“To confront Alicia?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mark frowned.
“She forged my signature.”
“Possibly. Right now you know a document exists bearing a signature you say isn’t yours. Don’t turn suspicion into fact before we have the original.”
Mark paced across my kitchen.
“So I’m supposed to do nothing?”
“You preserve evidence.”
That word settled him.
Evidence.
Thomas instructed Mark not to delete texts, emails, voicemails, or financial records.
Then Mark suddenly stopped pacing.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“There was an envelope.”
My stomach tightened.
“What envelope?”
“Two weeks ago. Alicia put something in my desk and told me it was insurance paperwork.”
Thomas immediately asked, “Did you open it?”
“No.”
“Is it still there?”
“I think so.”
Twenty minutes later, Mark called from his house.
Thomas put him on speaker.
“I found it.”
“What does it say?” I asked.
“There’s a copy of Dad’s death certificate.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
Raymond.
“Anything else?”
“Your property tax statement.”
Thomas and I exchanged a look.
One of the missing documents.
Mark kept reading.
“And there’s a photocopy of your driver’s license.”
Another missing item.
Then he stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.
“There’s a note.”
“Read it exactly.”
Paper rustled.
Then my son read:
“Need original POA before eighteenth. Bruce says title company won’t proceed on copy.”
The kitchen went silent.
Thomas stood.
“Mark, photograph everything exactly where you found it before touching anything else.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t confront Alicia.”
“Thomas…”
“Promise me.”
A pause.
“I promise.”
The call ended.
I stared at Raymond’s empty chair.
December eighteenth again.
The date they intended to move me into Silver Meadows.
Thomas sat beside me.
“Dorothy, there’s something I need to ask.”
“All right.”
“Where are your original estate documents?”
I pointed toward the hallway.
“Bedroom safe.”
“When did you last check them?”
I couldn’t remember.
That frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
Not because my memory was failing.
Because I had never believed I needed to check.
We walked to my bedroom.
I opened the closet.
Moved Raymond’s old shoe box.
Behind it sat the small fireproof safe.
I entered the code.
The lock clicked.
Inside were birth certificates.
Raymond’s will.
Our marriage certificate.
My current will.
Thomas reached carefully through the folders.
Then stopped.
“Your power-of-attorney document should be here.”
“It is.”
I reached toward the blue folder.
Opened it.
Empty.
I stared at it.
“No.”
Thomas checked again.
Nothing.
The folder was there.
The document wasn’t.
My original power of attorney had disappeared.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
Thomas remained quiet.
Then I remembered something.
“Raymond chose you.”
Thomas looked at me.
“What?”
“When we prepared it years ago. If I ever became unable to handle things, Raymond was first. After he died…”
I looked directly at Thomas.
“You became my alternate.”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
Not Mark.
Not Alicia.
Thomas.
Which meant whoever had taken that original document had discovered a problem.
Even if they could convince people I was incapable of managing my affairs, my existing paperwork did not give my son control.
It gave Thomas control.
I suddenly understood the note.
Need original POA before eighteenth.
They didn’t merely need a power of attorney.
They needed mine gone.
Thomas’s phone rang.
Mark.
He answered.
“Mark?”
My son’s voice came fast.
“She’s home.”
“Alicia?”
“Yes.”
“Do not confront her.”
“I haven’t.”
Then Mark lowered his voice.
“But Thomas…”
“What?”
“I looked through the rest of the envelope.”
A pause.
“There’s another document.”
“What document?”
Mark inhaled.
“A new power of attorney.”
My heart stopped.
Thomas asked the only question that mattered.
“Who does it appoint?”
Mark didn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“Me.”
I closed my eyes.
But he wasn’t finished.
“And Mom?”
“Yes?”
“The signature on this one…”
His voice broke.
“…looks exactly like yours.”
