Chapter 3 - The Woman in the Dark Sedan
I have never been afraid of a car parked outside my house.
I grew up in a neighborhood where people parked wherever they could find shade, and I raised Marcus on a street where three different families believed the curb belonged to them.
But there was something about that dark sedan.
It had been sitting opposite my front porch since before lunch.
Its windows were tinted.
Its engine was off.
And every time I moved past the window, I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone inside had moved too.
I called Denise.
"Are you still at work?"
"Yes. Why?"
"There's a car outside."
"What kind?"
"Dark gray. Four doors. Looks expensive."
"Do you recognize it?"
"No."
"Don't go outside."
I almost laughed.
"Sweetheart, I'm seventy, not stupid."
"That's exactly why I'm telling you."
She promised to come over after work.
Then I called the nonemergency police number, explained the circumstances, and asked whether an officer could check the vehicle.
By the time a patrol car drove down my street, the sedan was gone.
That did not make me feel better.
It made me feel watched by somebody who knew when to leave.
At two o'clock, Bernice arrived with a casserole and a face full of trouble.
"You need to stop answering your phone," she announced.
"Good afternoon to you too."
She set the casserole on my counter.
"Have you seen what people are saying?"
"I've seen enough."
"Somebody called you a dangerous grandmother."
"That's a promotion. Yesterday I was just difficult."
"Olivia."
I turned toward her.
Bernice was not smiling.
She showed me her phone.
The edited video had passed two hundred thousand views.
People who had never met me were discussing my sanity, my parenting, and whether I should be allowed to live alone.
One woman wrote that my behavior was a warning sign of dementia.
Another suggested Marcus should have me placed in a nursing home.
A third wanted my address so she could send Tiffany flowers.
I read until my stomach hurt.
Then I handed the phone back.
"These people don't know me."
"That's true."
"Then why should I care?"
"Because Tiffany wants somebody who does know you to start believing them."
I looked at her.
"Marcus."
Bernice nodded.
"Marcus."
I walked to the window.
My front yard looked exactly as it always had.
The Japanese maple Samuel planted on our twenty-fifth anniversary was turning red.
The porch swing needed a fresh coat of paint.
A child's bicycle lay on the lawn next door.
Ordinary things.
Safe things.
The sort of things that make a woman believe the world outside her house can be kept outside forever.
"Bernice," I said, "I think Tiffany is trying to take this house."
She came to stand beside me.
"Why?"
I told her about the text.
About Marcus's suggestion that I seek counseling.
About the way Tiffany had watched Denise's phone.
When I finished, Bernice looked deeply unhappy.
"Have you made any changes to your will?"
"No."
"Given Marcus power of attorney?"
"No."
"Signed anything recently?"
I started to answer.
Then stopped.
Bernice noticed.
"What?"
"Three weeks ago, Marcus brought over some papers."
"What kind of papers?"
"Something about updating family records."
"Did you sign them?"
I thought back.
Marcus had arrived on a Thursday evening with takeout from my favorite barbecue place.
He had been unusually cheerful.
We ate in the kitchen.
Then he took a folder from his briefcase.
He said he and Tiffany were meeting with a financial planner.
He asked me to sign a form confirming my contact information for the family estate file.
I remembered laughing at the phrase.
"Family estate," I'd said. "We own one house and a lawn mower that doesn't start."
Marcus had laughed too.
He showed me a page with my name, address, and date of birth.
I signed.
At least, I thought I had signed only that.
Bernice was watching me.
"Olivia?"
"I signed one page."
"Did you read the whole document?"
I felt something heavy settle behind my ribs.
"There wasn't a whole document."
"Are you certain?"
I was not.
I hated that answer.
At four, I sat across from attorney Caroline Price in an office that smelled of coffee and expensive paper.
Caroline was fifty-six, with silver streaks in her dark hair and the sort of calm expression that made clients tell her things they had planned to keep secret.
She listened without interrupting.
I told her about the cake.
The slap.
The police report.
The edited video.
The messages.
And the papers Marcus had brought.
When I finished, she folded her hands.
"First, Olivia, we need to deal with your physical confrontation."
"I understand."
"You may face criminal or civil consequences."
"I understand that too."
"Good. Because I won't defend what you did by pretending it was legally justified."
"I don't want you to."
She nodded.
"Second, preserve everything. The original video, the messages, any correspondence from Tiffany, and your records of the birthday party."
"What about my house?"
"That's the third issue. Do you have a copy of your deed?"
"Yes."
"Bring it to me."
She paused.
"And don't sign anything else without having it independently reviewed."
I looked at her.
"Do you think Marcus tricked me?"
"I don't know."
"Could somebody take my house with one signature?"
"Property transactions generally involve additional formalities, and a signature alone doesn't tell us what happened. But if documents were misrepresented or forged, we need to identify them quickly."
She opened a notebook.
"Who prepared those papers?"
"Marcus said his financial planner."
"Name?"
"I don't know."
"Find out."
I took a breath.
"Caroline, I built that house with my husband."
"I understand."
"No. I don't think you do."
She waited.
"Samuel worked nights for almost four years so we could afford the down payment. I worked the school cafeteria in the morning and cleaned offices after dinner. We put every extra dollar into the mortgage."
My voice caught.
"We buried him eight years ago. The house is what I have left of the life we made."
Caroline's expression softened.
"Then we'll find out exactly what is happening to it."
When I arrived home, Denise was waiting on my porch.
She held a paper envelope.
"Where did that come from?" I asked.
"It was tucked into your screen door."
There was no stamp.
No return address.
Just my name written in black marker.
I opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a document.
At the top were the words:
RESIDENTIAL PROPERTY TRANSFER REVIEW
Below them was my address.
And farther down, something that made my hands go numb.
My name.
My signature.
A signature that looked enough like mine to fool someone who had never watched me write it.
Next to it was a date.
Three weeks before my birthday.
Denise leaned closer.
"Aunt Olivia?"
I did not answer.
Because beneath the signature was another name.
Marcus Reed — Proposed Authorized Representative.
And underneath that was a company I had never heard of.
Sterling Residential Solutions, LLC.
Someone had been preparing paperwork concerning my house.
May you like
Someone had copied my signature.
And someone wanted me frightened enough to believe the paperwork was already final.
