The arrival. Tiffany at the door. The changed lock. The conversation through the window. The petition. Peter’s name. The realtor packet.
Mara did not interrupt until I finished. Then she leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly through her nose.
“That little snake,” she said with admirable clarity.
I would have laughed if I had not felt so cold.
Mara read every page twice. Then she asked the questions I should have asked myself sooner.
“Who holds title right now?”
“I do.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Any trust? joint tenancy? transfer-on-death instrument?”
“No.”
“Did you ever sign power of attorney to Peter?”
“Never.”
“Did you ever authorize him to list, rent, or manage the house?”
“No.”
“Did you ever discuss assisted living, guardianship, or conservatorship with anyone?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said. “Then what they’ve drafted is not only obscene. It may also be stupid.”
“May be?”
“If they haven’t filed anything yet, it’s a threat. If they’ve already filed or recorded documents without your consent, it’s fraud.”
She stood up, crossed to her file cabinet, and pulled out a legal pad.
“First we confirm title. Then we check whether anything has been recorded against the property. Then we put a hold, if possible. After that we decide whether to involve police immediately or after we gather a few more pieces.”
I stared at her. “You’re very calm.”
Mara gave me a thin smile. “Rosalind, I spend my life watching relatives turn into hyenas the minute property enters the room. Emotion is expensive. Paper is useful.”
We walked together to the county records office.
The clerk on duty knew Mara and greeted her warmly, then became more formal the moment she saw the address and heard the request. She pulled up the parcel records, frowned, and said, “There is a recently recorded quitclaim deed.”
