Chapter 4 - The Signature That Wasn't Mine
I did not sleep that night.
At seventy, sleeplessness usually comes from an aching hip, an overactive bladder, or a neighbor who believes leaf blowers are a form of recreation.
That night, it came from one page of paper.
I laid the photocopy on my dining room table and studied my signature beneath the lamp.
The O was too round.
The final d in Reed leaned the wrong way.
And the line beneath my name had been signed with a smoothness my right hand no longer possessed.
I knew those things because I had been writing my name for sixty-four years.
I also knew something else.
Whoever had produced that signature had copied it from an older sample.
My handwriting changed after I broke two fingers falling from a ladder five years earlier.
Samuel would have scolded me for climbing it.
Then he would have climbed it himself.
I looked toward his photograph.
"Well," I said aloud, "somebody has made an unfortunate mistake."
At eight the next morning, I called Caroline.
She asked me to bring the document directly to her office.
By ten, she had examined it.
"This isn't a recorded deed," she said.
"Then what is it?"
"It appears to be part of a proposed transaction or internal review. It may be genuine paperwork, fabricated paperwork, or some combination. We need to verify the company and obtain the underlying records."
"So nobody owns my house but me?"
"According to the county records I've checked this morning, you're still the recorded owner."
I let out the breath I had been holding.
Caroline raised a finger.
"That doesn't mean the problem is imaginary."
"I didn't think it did."
"It means we need facts before we draw conclusions."
She made copies.
Then she asked whether I recognized the signature.
I told her about my broken fingers.
She nodded.
"That's useful."
"Can we call the company?"
"We can. But I also want to know who left this envelope and why."
"Maybe someone is trying to warn me."
"Maybe."
She looked down at the page.
"Or someone wants you to react."
That possibility stayed with me all the way home.
By noon, Marcus had called six times.
I answered the seventh.
"Mom, where have you been?"
"Out."
"Doing what?"
"Living."
He sighed.
"Can we please have a normal conversation?"
"That depends on what you consider normal."
"I saw the video has gotten worse."
"Yes."
"Tiffany's getting threats now."
"Nobody should threaten her."
He seemed surprised.
"Really?"
"Marcus, I may dislike your wife, but I don't wish her harm."
"Then you should post an apology."
"I'll address my conduct through proper channels. I'm not going to make a statement written by Tiffany."
"She hasn't written anything."
"Not yet."
There was a pause.
Then he said, "I need to come by."
"Why?"
"To talk about your living situation."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"My living situation?"
"Mom, don't take it that way."
"What way?"
"Like I'm attacking you."
"Then explain what you mean."
He lowered his voice.
"Tiffany thinks you shouldn't be alone right now."
I looked toward the front door.
"Does Tiffany think I need a nurse?"
"No."
"A babysitter?"
"Mom."
"A padded room?"
"Stop doing that."
"Then stop speaking around the thing you actually want."
He went silent.
I heard a door close on his end.
Then his voice changed.
"There's a place we could look at."
I stared at the kitchen clock.
A little after noon.
Twenty-four hours since the video had appeared.
Two days since my birthday.
And my son was already proposing that I move.
"What place?"
"It's called Willow Creek Senior Living."
I knew the name.
Everybody in town knew it.
Beautiful landscaping.
A dining room with white tablecloths.
Brochures full of smiling older people who appeared to spend their days playing cards and drinking sparkling water.
It was also more than forty minutes from my church, my doctors, and every friend I had left.
"Marcus," I said, "I am not moving."
"Just look at it."
"No."
"Mom, it's not a prison."
"Then nobody should mind when I refuse to visit."
"You're making this harder than it needs to be."
I straightened.
"Harder for whom?"
He said nothing.
"Marcus?"
"For everybody."
That answer told me enough.
I ended the call politely.
Then I went upstairs to Samuel's old study.
I had not changed the room much since he died.
His books were still on the shelves.
His desk still smelled faintly of leather polish.
The bottom drawer held our most important papers.
Birth certificates.
Marriage license.
Insurance policies.
The deed.
Our wills.
And an old blue folder containing copies of every major financial document we'd signed during our marriage.
Samuel had believed that a paper worth signing was worth keeping.
I used to tease him about it.
That morning, I wanted to kiss him for it.
I pulled out the folder.
Then I noticed something.
The metal clasp was bent.
Not broken.
Bent.
I opened it carefully.
The deed was there.
So were our original wills.
But an envelope containing photocopies of my identification documents was missing.
I sat down.
I knew exactly when I had last seen that envelope.
Christmas.
The day my three hundred dollars disappeared.
I closed the drawer.
Then I called Denise.
"Do you remember Tiffany coming upstairs last Christmas?"
"Yes."
"What did she say she was doing?"
Denise took a moment.
"Looking for her phone."
"Did she find it?"
"She said she did."
"Where?"
Another pause.
"In your bedroom, I think."
I looked toward Samuel's desk.
"Did anybody see her go into the study?"
"I don't know."
Denise hesitated.
"Why?"
"Because something's missing."
I heard her inhale.
Then she said, "Aunt Olivia, there's something else."
I shut my eyes.
"Tell me."
"Somebody at my office recognized the name Sterling Residential Solutions."
My back went straight.
"Who?"
"My manager. Her brother works in commercial real estate."
"And?"
"She said Sterling Residential buys houses from people who need fast sales."
"That doesn't sound unusual."
"No."
Denise's voice dropped.
"But she also said Tiffany used to work for them."
The room seemed to tilt.
"Used to?"
"Before she married Marcus."
I stared at the blue folder.
For eleven years, Tiffany had told me she worked in luxury property marketing before moving into event planning.
She had never mentioned a company that purchased homes from distressed owners.
"Denise, I need you to find out exactly what kind of work she did there."
"Okay."
"And don't confront her."
"I won't."
I ended the call.
Then I looked at Samuel's photograph again.
"You always said I kept too much paper."
His smile looked back at me.
I pulled the old filing cabinet away from the wall.
Behind it was a narrow space where Samuel had once dropped a box of tax receipts.
I reached down.
My fingertips touched cardboard.
I brought the box into the light.
Inside were old mortgage statements, photographs, and a small black notebook.
I recognized Samuel's handwriting immediately.
On the first page, he had written:
If anybody ever tells Olivia she doesn't understand what she owns, show her this.
May you like
Beneath the sentence were the names of three properties.
I had only ever known about one.
