“Tell me you aren't serious.”
Dereck looked down at his open carry-on, then slowly raised his eyes to mine.
“I can't find my passport, Nora.”
For a few seconds, I couldn't think of anything to say. The airport was crowded with travelers dragging wheeled suitcases, balancing paper coffee cups, and hurrying toward their gates. Above us, an announcement crackled through the speakers.
We were less than an hour from the departure of our anniversary flight to Lisbon.
And my husband was telling me that he had forgotten the one document he couldn't travel without.
“Check the front pocket again,” I said.
“I already did.”
“Then check your jacket.”
“Nora, I've looked everywhere.”
There was something unusually final about his voice. He wasn't behaving like a man who expected to find what he'd misplaced. He sounded as though he had already accepted the outcome.
I reached for his bag anyway.
He caught the handle before I could lift it.
“I've checked it,” he repeated.
“Then where could it possibly be?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Maybe I left it in our bedroom. In my bedside drawer.”
His answer stopped me.
The evening before, Dereck had stood at our kitchen counter and insisted that we check our passports together. He had even reminded me to put mine in the zipped compartment of my handbag rather than inside my suitcase.
He'd been particularly careful about the paperwork.
Now, apparently, he had left his own passport behind.
We had been married for fifteen years. Our anniversary was something I usually celebrated with a home-cooked dinner, a bottle of wine, and perhaps a weekend away if our schedules allowed.
This trip was different.
It had been Dereck's idea.
He had suggested Lisbon in early summer, telling me that fifteen years deserved more than flowers and dinner reservations. For months, he had helped compare hotels, suggested places to visit, and talked about how pleasant it would be to walk through an unfamiliar city without worrying about work or household chores.
I'd been delighted by his enthusiasm.
It had also reassured me.
Things between us hadn't been particularly easy lately.
Dereck had been distracted throughout the summer. His small contracting business had encountered delays, and several clients were taking longer than expected to pay.
He spent more evenings on the telephone, often stepping outside to finish conversations.
Once or twice, I had asked whether he needed help reviewing the household budget.
He always gave the same answer.
“It's temporary, Nora. I've handled worse.”
I wanted to believe him.
We had been through difficult periods before. When the roof leaked, we repaired it. When his business slowed, we reduced expenses. When my father died, Dereck had sat beside me through the funeral arrangements and quietly taken care of the practical things I couldn't bear to face.
I trusted him because I thought we had built that trust through years of ordinary decisions.
Standing in the airport, I had no reason to imagine that the missing passport was anything more sinister than an expensive mistake.
“Listen,” I said, checking the time. “Mom can go over to the house.”
Dereck's head came up.
“No.”
The sharpness of his answer surprised me.
“What?”
“Don't involve your mother. I'll go back myself.”
“Dereck, that won't work. By the time you get through traffic, find the passport, and return, the plane will be gone.”
“Then I'll take a later flight.”
“And leave me standing here?”
He glanced toward the departure screens.
“You could go ahead. There's no reason both of us should miss the trip.”
I looked at him.
We had spent months planning an anniversary vacation together. Yet he was already suggesting that I travel alone.
“I am not flying to Portugal without my husband on our anniversary.”
“You'd only be alone for a little while.”
“Or we could ask Mom to find your passport and avoid the whole problem.”
He made an impatient sound.
I had seldom seen him react so strongly to a practical suggestion.
My mother, June Mercer, lived about ten minutes from our house. She had a spare key because she occasionally checked on our plants when we traveled.
Dereck had never objected to that arrangement.
In fact, he had called Mom himself the previous winter when a frozen pipe burst while I was away visiting a friend.
Now he seemed determined to keep her out of our home.
“Why don't you want her going inside?” I asked.
He looked away.
“It's embarrassing. I don't need your mother thinking I can't manage my own belongings.”
I nearly laughed.
“Mom has known you for seventeen years. She isn't going to judge you for forgetting a passport.”
He shifted the strap on his shoulder.
“Fine. Do what you want.”
I took out my phone.
Mom answered almost immediately.
“Shouldn't you two be getting ready to board?” she asked cheerfully.
“We would be, except your son-in-law has misplaced his passport.”
“Oh, dear.”
“He thinks it's in his bedside drawer. Could you go over and check?”
“Of course. I'm still at home. Give me a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Mom. You might actually save our trip.”
“Don't thank me until I find it.”
I described the drawer, although she knew our bedroom well enough. She had helped me choose the curtains and had painted the old dresser when we first moved in.
After ending the call, I felt considerably better.
Dereck didn't.
He was standing beside the seats near our gate, looking at his watch.
“She's going over now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Straight to the bedroom?”
“Unless she plans to search the kitchen first.”
He didn't smile.
Instead, he took out his phone and typed a message.
I sat down.
“Are you calling the airline?”
“No.”
“Then who are you texting?”
“Someone from work.”
“Right now?”
“It's just a question about a job.”
I let the subject drop.
There had been enough tension that morning.
I wanted to believe that once Mom found the passport, we would laugh about this little disaster over dinner in Lisbon.
I even pictured us telling the story years later.
The time Dereck nearly ruined our anniversary because he couldn't remember where he'd put his passport.
It would have been funny.
If that had truly been what happened.
Our home stood on Briar Lane, a quiet street lined with mature maple trees and modest houses built long before the neighborhood became desirable.
We called ours Willow House.
My father had given it that name when I was a child because of the enormous weeping willow beside the back garden.
He had bought the property when it needed more repairs than most people considered sensible. He spent years restoring it, working room by room while my mother balanced the household accounts and reminded him that we couldn't live on enthusiasm alone.
I remembered him replacing rotten window frames, repairing the stairs, and teaching me to use a paint scraper without damaging the wood beneath.
He was particularly proud of the kitchen pantry.
He had built every shelf himself, marking the measurements with a carpenter's pencil.
Even after he finished painting, some of those marks remained visible.
When Dad died seven years earlier, he left the house to me.
Mom had moved into a smaller place nearby.
Dereck and I had already been married for several years, but we decided to move into Willow House instead of selling it.
The deed stayed in my name.
It was never a subject of disagreement, at least not openly.
Dereck occasionally complained about the costs of maintaining an older property.
He thought the land was worth more than the house itself.
I reminded him that not every valuable thing needed to be sold.
Usually, that ended the discussion.
But over the previous few months, he'd started raising the subject more often.
One Sunday, while we were cleaning up after breakfast, he asked whether I'd ever considered selling Willow House and moving somewhere smaller.
“We don't need all these rooms,” he'd said.
“We use nearly all of them.”
“The upstairs guest room hasn't had a guest in six months.”
“That isn't a reason to move.”
He had laughed and kissed the top of my head.
“I'm only thinking ahead.”
I had thought he meant retirement.
Now, sitting in the airport, I remembered that conversation for reasons I couldn't yet explain.
Beside me, Dereck checked his phone again.
I glanced at the departure board.
The flight was still listed on time.
“Maybe you should ask the gate agent what happens if you arrive a few minutes late,” I suggested.
“There's no point.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know how airlines work.”
“People make mistakes, Dereck.”
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “They do.”
A few minutes passed.
I offered to buy coffee.
He declined.
I suggested we move closer to the gate.
He said he preferred where we were.
Every so often, his phone vibrated. He checked it immediately, sometimes typing an answer and sometimes simply staring at the screen.
Finally, I asked what was troubling him.
“I'm just frustrated,” he said.
“About the passport?”
“What else would it be?”
His tone made me fall silent.
He noticed.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn't mean to snap.”
I touched his arm.
“We'll figure it out.”
He withdrew his hand to adjust his watch.
It was such a small movement that I might not have noticed under different circumstances.
But something had begun to feel wrong.
I couldn't have explained it then.
I only knew that my husband appeared less worried about missing our anniversary flight than about what might happen when my mother entered our bedroom.
Twenty minutes after my first call, Mom's name appeared on my screen.
I answered eagerly.
“Please tell me you found it.”
She didn't respond at once.
Instead, she asked, “Nora, where's Dereck?”
“Right beside me.”
“Is he listening?”
I turned slightly away.
“No. What's going on?”
Her voice sounded strained.
“I need you to move somewhere he can't hear.”
“Mom, you're frightening me.”
“Please, sweetheart.”
I rose from my seat and walked a few steps toward the windows.
Dereck watched me.
I turned my back to him.
“Alright. Tell me.”
There was a faint rustling sound on the line.
Then Mom spoke in a voice I barely recognized.
“Honey, that man has set you up. You need to come home.”
I gripped my phone.
“What?”
“Don't get on the airplane.”
“Mom, what happened?”
“Promise me you won't board.”
“Of course I won't if something's wrong, but you have to tell me what you've found.”
She hesitated.
“I found his passport. It's exactly where he said.”
“Then why are you upset?”
“Because of what was underneath it.”
Behind me, someone pulled a suitcase across the tiled floor.
The wheels made a hard, rattling sound that seemed strangely loud.
“What was underneath it?”
“Some papers.”
“What papers?”
“Documents about Willow House.”
I stared at the windows.
Outside, a baggage cart moved slowly beneath the wing of an aircraft.
I could see my reflection in the glass.
My face had gone pale.
“Why would that matter?”
“Nora, your name is on them. Mine too.”
“What kind of documents?”
“I'm taking photographs. I'll send them to you.”
“Mom—”
“Listen. Don't show Dereck. Don't ask him about anything yet.”
There was something deeply unsettling about hearing my mother speak that way.
She was a practical woman.
When my father was ill, she had been the person who asked the doctors questions, kept track of his medication, and made certain someone remembered to feed the dog.
She didn't frighten easily.
If she was warning me about Dereck, there had to be a reason.
“Are you safe?” I asked.
“Yes. I'm at your house.”
“Then tell me what's happened.”
“Not while he's standing beside you.”
I glanced backward.
Dereck was watching me closely.
He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
I forced a small smile.
“Did she find it?” he called.
I covered the microphone.
“She's still looking.”
His gaze sharpened.
I turned back toward the windows.
“Mom, send the pictures.”
“I will. And Nora?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever he says, don't let him persuade you to go anywhere alone with him until we understand this.”
The call ended.
I stood there for several seconds.
I had no idea what my mother had discovered.
My mind raced through possibilities.
Perhaps Dereck had hidden unpaid bills.
Perhaps he'd taken out a loan without telling me.
Maybe the papers were simply an old estimate for repairs.
But why would Mom sound so frightened?
Why would she warn me not to board the plane?
I returned to the seats, trying to keep my expression normal.
Dereck immediately leaned toward me.
“Well?”
“She found the drawer,” I said.
“And?”
“She's checking.”
“Checking what?”
“I don't know.”
He studied my face.
“Did she say something else?”
“No.”
He looked at my phone.
“Why did you walk away?”
“Because I couldn't hear her over the announcements.”
For a moment, I thought he would question me again.
Instead, he glanced at the departure board.
“Look, Nora. If she doesn't find it soon, you should just go.”
I shook my head.
“I'm not leaving you behind.”
“You've been looking forward to this vacation.”
“So have you.”
“Then don't waste it.”
He reached across and touched my knee.
There was a pleading quality to the gesture that made me uncomfortable.
“You can check into the hotel,” he continued. “I'll sort this out and meet you as soon as I can.”
“What about your work?”
“What about it?”
“You said things were busy.”
“I can handle it.”
“Dereck, you've been saying that for months.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“Let's not start arguing now.”
I looked at him.
There was a time when I would have found his insistence touching.
He wanted me to enjoy the vacation despite his mistake.
That was the explanation I would have accepted an hour earlier.
But my mother's warning hung between us.
He needed me to get on the plane.
And I suddenly wanted to know why.
My phone vibrated.
A photograph from Mom.
I waited until Dereck returned his attention to the departure screens before opening it.
The image showed the familiar interior of his bedside drawer.
I recognized the faded green paper lining the bottom.
We had installed it together shortly after moving into Willow House, using a roll left over from the kitchen cabinets.
Near the back of the drawer lay Dereck's passport.
But beneath it was a thick manila envelope.
Across the front, someone had written:
WILLOW HOUSE
FRIDAY — 11:30 A.M.
Below that was our address on Briar Lane.
The name printed underneath meant nothing to me.
Alder Ridge Holdings.
I opened the next photograph.
Mom had pulled several pages from the envelope.
The first carried a heading that made my throat tighten.
LIMITED POWER OF ATTORNEY FOR REAL PROPERTY TRANSACTION.
My full name appeared beneath it.
Nora Mercer.
I recognized the legal description of Willow House.
Then I saw the paragraph authorizing Dereck Mercer to act on my behalf in a sale involving the property.
I read it once.
Then again.
I had never signed such a document.
I had never given my husband permission to sell my father's house.
My eyes moved farther down the page.
There was a signature in the place reserved for mine.
It looked very much like my handwriting.
Someone had carefully copied the way I formed the capital N, including the little curl at the beginning.
But I knew that I hadn't written it.
Below my name was another signature.
June Mercer.
My mother.
It was almost convincing.
Almost.
Mom had a distinctive way of finishing the last letter of her surname.
The mark on the document was different.
I zoomed in until the writing blurred.
The more I looked, the more frightened I became.
It was not merely a strange document.
It was a document someone had gone to considerable trouble to make appear genuine.
Dereck leaned toward me.
“Nora?”
I locked the phone.
“What?”
“You look terrible.”
“I don't feel very well.”
He glanced toward the gate.
“Are you getting sick?”
“Maybe. I need the restroom.”
He started to stand.
“I'll come with you.”
“No. Watch our bags.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'll only be a minute.”
I walked away before he could respond.
I didn't run.
Something about running seemed likely to attract attention.
Instead, I followed the signs toward the restrooms and kept walking until I reached a quieter corridor beside a closed newsstand.
There, I called Mom.
She answered immediately.
“Did you see?”
“Yes.”
My voice shook.
“Mom, I didn't sign that.”
“I know you didn't.”
“And that isn't your signature either.”
“No.”
“What's happening?”
She took a breath.
“There are more pages, sweetheart. A sale agreement. A settlement appointment. The documents say you're selling Willow House.”
I leaned against the wall.
My father's house.
The kitchen where Mom had taught me to make bread.
The porch where Dad used to sit with a mug of coffee after working in the garden.
The house where Dereck and I had spent so many years of marriage.
Someone had prepared documents to sell it without my permission.
“What time is the appointment?” I asked.
“Eleven thirty this morning.”
I looked at my watch.
Our plane was scheduled to depart at ten forty-five.
A cold realization settled over me.
By the time the appointment began, I was supposed to be sitting on an aircraft over the Atlantic.
Unreachable.
Unable to question anything.
Meanwhile, Dereck would have returned home to collect the passport he had deliberately left behind.
He would have a perfectly ordinary reason for missing the flight.
And if I followed his instructions, nobody at the property closing would need to worry about my unexpected appearance.
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Mom, who is the buyer?”
“Some company called Alder Ridge Holdings.”
“Have you ever heard of it?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.”
She shuffled the papers.
“There's a woman named Celia Marsh listed as a contact.”
I recognized the name, though I couldn't immediately place it.
It bothered me.
Dereck had mentioned a Celia several times over the previous year.
I thought she worked with one of his business associates.
She had once called during dinner, and he had taken the conversation outside.
When I asked who it was, he'd said she was helping him with some paperwork.
At the time, I hadn't thought much of it.
Now her name appeared on an agreement concerning my home.
“What price does it say?” I asked.
Mom went quiet.
“Two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
Willow House was worth considerably more.
The property alone had been valued at over six hundred thousand dollars by a local agent the previous year.
We hadn't requested a formal appraisal, but neighborhood sales gave me a reasonable idea of its value.
A sale at less than half that amount made no sense.
Unless the purpose wasn't an ordinary sale.
Unless someone intended to move the property out of my name as quickly as possible.
“Mom, please don't touch anything else.”
“I've already photographed the pages.”
“Good. Put them back where you found them.”
“I want to take the originals.”
“Not yet. We may need someone to see exactly how they were arranged.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dereck know?”
“No.”
“Please don't tell him until you're somewhere safe.”
I looked down the corridor.
Passengers passed without paying attention to me.
For fifteen years, Dereck had been the person I called when something went wrong.
Now I was standing in an airport, hiding from him while discussing evidence of what looked like a deliberate fraud.
The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh.
Instead, tears came to my eyes.
“Mom, how could he do this?”
“I don't know, honey.”
“He knows what that house means to me.”
“I know.”
“He helped Dad repair the back steps. He carried his coffin at the funeral.”
Mom said nothing.
Her silence was kinder than any explanation she might have offered.
Finally, she said, “Come home. We'll sort out the rest together.”
I promised I would.
Then I remembered someone.
Elaine Porter.
Elaine had handled the legal work after Dad died. She had helped transfer the property into my name and had patiently explained every document when I was too exhausted from grief to concentrate.
I still had her number.
I called.
Her assistant answered first.
I explained that I needed urgent advice about a property transaction I had never authorized.
Within several minutes, Elaine was speaking to me.
“Nora? Tell me exactly what you've discovered.”
I gave her the broad outline.
The airport.
The passport.
The documents.
The forged signatures.
The appointment scheduled for eleven thirty.
She didn't interrupt.
When I finished, she asked an important question.
“Have you ever executed a power of attorney giving Dereck authority to sell Willow House?”
“No.”
“Not even a limited document for another purpose?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Has anyone asked you to sign anything involving the property recently?”
I hesitated.
Dereck had asked me to sign several papers over the previous months.
Insurance renewals.
A contractor's estimate.
Some household forms he'd brought home and said were necessary for his business accounting.
I remembered one evening when he'd put a folder beside my plate while I was eating dinner.
He'd said there were some documents related to a tax adjustment.
I'd skimmed them and signed where he indicated.
The memory made me feel suddenly ill.
“Dereck handles most of our household paperwork,” I admitted.
“That's alright,” Elaine said. “Don't guess about what you signed. We'll examine the records.”
“Could those forms have been part of this?”
“Possibly, but we don't know yet. A forged signature and a document you actually signed under misleading circumstances are different issues. We need to establish what exists.”
Her calmness helped me breathe.
She asked me to forward the photographs.
Then she told me not to confront Dereck until we had taken steps to alert the people handling the transaction.
“Do you know the closing company?”
“Not yet.”
“Ask your mother to photograph the first page of the settlement instructions. It should identify the company or attorney.”
I called Mom again.
A minute later, she sent another photograph.
HARBOR TITLE SERVICES.
There was an address and a telephone number.
I forwarded it to Elaine.
“I'm going to contact them immediately,” she said. “But understand something, Nora. We cannot assume the entire transaction will stop just because we make a telephone call. We need to provide written notice and make sure the right people receive it.”
“What should I do?”
“Leave the airport. Don't board the flight. Keep every message Dereck sends you.”
“Should I call the police?”
“We may need to file a report. First, let's prevent any further action on the property. If you feel unsafe, contact airport security or the police immediately.”
I thanked her.
She promised to call as soon as she had spoken with Harbor Title.
When I ended the conversation, a message from Dereck appeared.
Where are you? Boarding soon.
I stared at it.
Another arrived.
You should go ahead without me. I'll get the passport and take the next flight.
There it was.
The instruction he had been working toward all morning.
I should board.
He should return home.
The same two conditions required by the documents my mother had discovered.
My first instinct was to confront him.
I wanted to walk back to the gate, hold up my phone, and demand that he explain why he had prepared paperwork to sell my home behind my back.
But the documents were more important than my anger.
If I told Dereck what Mom had found, he could call whoever was waiting at the closing office.
He could claim the paperwork had been misunderstood.
He could try to recover the originals or persuade someone to proceed before we stopped him.
I needed facts.
And I needed him to believe, for a little longer, that his plan was working.
I sent a short reply.
Feeling unwell. Talking to the airline desk.
His answer came almost immediately.
Don't change anything. Take the flight. We'll sort it out later.
I read the message twice.
The insistence was unmistakable.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I walked to the airline service counter and explained that I would not be traveling.
The agent was sympathetic.
She reviewed our booking and explained the options for changing or canceling the reservation.
I barely heard the details.
All I wanted was to make sure I wasn't listed as a passenger once the aircraft departed.
I also needed to recover my carry-on.
Dereck had been watching both suitcases near the gate.
My handbag was with me, along with my identification, bank cards, and phone.
The suitcase could wait.
I wasn't going back to him for a change of clothes.
The agent helped me review the booking and documented that I would not board.
As I stepped aside, my phone rang.
Dereck.
I let it ring.
He called again.
Then came another message.
Nora, where are you? They're starting to board.
I stared at the screen.
Every word felt different now.
He wasn't asking whether I was feeling better.
He wasn't concerned about my safety.
He wanted to know whether I had boarded.
Elaine called a few minutes later.
“Nora, I spoke with Harbor Title.”
I straightened.
“What did they say?”
“They have a file for Willow House. A closing is indeed scheduled for eleven thirty.”
I closed my eyes.
Until that moment, some small part of me had hoped the documents were drafts, abandoned plans, or something that could be explained without destroying my marriage.
The closing was real.
“And the power of attorney?” I asked.
“It's in their file. They received an apparently notarized copy authorizing Dereck to represent you.”
“I never signed it.”
“I've told them that, in writing. I've requested an immediate hold while they verify the document.”
“Will they stop?”
“They have acknowledged the dispute and said no transfer will be completed without further review. I'm obtaining written confirmation.”
I rested my free hand against the wall.
For the first time since Mom called, I felt a little of the panic begin to loosen.
But Elaine wasn't finished.
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“I asked why an owner would be unavailable to attend the closing of her own house.”
My throat tightened.
“What did they say?”
“According to the information submitted with the file, you've been planning an extended trip overseas. The representative said your husband supplied the schedule and requested an appointment after your flight departed.”
I stared at the departure screens.
Our flight number was still visible.
Dereck hadn't simply taken advantage of our anniversary vacation.
He had arranged the property transaction around it.
Elaine continued carefully.
“They were told you preferred not to delay the sale and had authorized Dereck to complete it while you were away.”
I felt something inside me give way.
I had spent months looking forward to Lisbon.
My husband had spent that same time preparing to use the trip against me.
“Elaine,” I whispered, “what do I do now?”
“Come to my office. Your mother should bring the photographs and any other information she has. We'll make sure the title company receives the appropriate objections and preserve the evidence.”
I looked down at my phone.
Another message from Dereck.
If you're going to miss boarding, tell me now.
I understood then that my marriage had already crossed a line I couldn't simply pretend not to see.
Whatever his explanation, he had arranged for my home to be transferred without my permission.
I could not undo the betrayal.
But I could decide what happened next.
I called Mom.
“I'm coming home.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Mom, don't let anyone into the house until I get there.”
“I won't.”
“And keep the pictures backed up.”
“They already are.”
I took one last look toward the gate where Dereck was waiting.
Fifteen years of marriage had taught me the shape of his hands, the sound of his footsteps, and the small expressions he made when he was tired.
They hadn't taught me how to recognize a man who was lying about something enormous.
I walked toward the airport exit without returning to him.
As the automatic doors opened, my phone vibrated again.
This time, the message was from Elaine.
Harbor Title has confirmed the closing is on hold. They also confirmed Dereck plans to attend in person. We need to establish who prepared the false authorization.
I stood beneath the airport canopy, watching cars pull up to the curb.
The question was no longer whether Dereck had forgotten his passport.
It was how many people had helped him arrange a sale I had never agreed to, and what else he might already have done with my name.
I put the phone in my handbag and ordered a ride.
For the first time that morning, I knew where I needed to go.
And it was not Lisbon.
By the time the rideshare pulled away from the airport, my hands had begun to shake.
I sat in the back seat with my handbag pressed against my knees, watching unfamiliar streets slide past the window.
The driver asked whether I was returning from a trip.
“No,” I answered. “I didn't make it onto the plane.”
He nodded politely and turned up the radio.
I was grateful he didn't ask anything else.
My phone lay faceup beside me.
Dereck had called four times.
I hadn't answered.
The last message was considerably different from the earlier ones.
Nora, this isn't funny. I need to know where you are.
I almost typed a reply.
For years, I had believed that a marriage required us to explain ourselves, even when we were angry.
I had never deliberately ignored my husband for this long.
But every answer I considered would give him information he could use.
If I told him I was returning home, he might go there first.
If I said I was speaking to a lawyer, he might contact the people involved in the sale.
If I accused him directly, he could invent an explanation before I had seen all the evidence.
I placed the phone in my bag.
Elaine had advised me to preserve the messages.
That was the only reason I didn't block his number.
Halfway through the journey, Mom called.
“Are you still at the airport?”
“No. I'm on my way to Elaine's office.”
“I can meet you there.”
“Are you outside the house?”
“Yes. I locked everything.”
“Did anyone come by?”
“No. But I noticed something when I was leaving.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“There's a small white sticker on the inside of the front window. I've never seen it before.”
“What does it say?”
“Just a code and the letters AR.”
I thought of the name on the documents.
Alder Ridge.
“Can you take a picture?”
“I already did.”
Of course she had.
Mom had spent her working life managing the accounts for a small medical practice. She had a habit of keeping receipts, making copies, and writing dates on everything.
When I was younger, I had sometimes found her careful recordkeeping excessive.
That morning, I was grateful for it.
She sent the photograph.
A small inventory label had been placed near the lower corner of the front window.
I couldn't prove who had put it there.
It might have been connected to repairs or an inspection.
But against the background of the forged sale agreement, its appearance disturbed me.
“Mom, has Dereck had anyone looking around the property lately?”
She hesitated.
“A couple of months ago, I saw two people taking photographs near the driveway.”
“Did you speak to them?”
