He slid a document across the desk. I looked at it. It was a power of attorney, authorizing Vernon Vance to sell the property.
At the bottom was a signature. Elara Vance.
“I didn’t sign this,” I whispered, the room spinning. “This is a forgery. My husband… he forged my signature.”
“He told us you were too busy to come in,” Graves stammered, pale. “He requested a night appraisal because he said you’d be asleep and he didn’t want to disturb you. He said he wanted to surprise you with the money from the sale.”
“Surprise me?” I laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. “He was selling my home out from under me while I slept.”
“We have a buyer lined up,” Graves admitted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Cash deal. Closing in two days.”
Two days. If I hadn’t seen the tracks… if I had shoveled the snow… the appraisal would have happened, the deal would have closed, and Vernon would have disappeared with the money before I even knew the house was gone.
“Cancel it,” Officer Pernell ordered, his voice hard as iron. “We are opening a criminal investigation for fraud.”
We spent hours at the police station. I wrote statements. I answered questions. I felt like a ghost in my own life.
Vernon wasn’t just tired of me. He wasn’t just distant. He was a criminal. He had planned to leave me homeless and penniless at fifty-eight years old.
Two days later, Gareth called me.
“Mrs. Vance, your husband returned. We detained him at the depot.”
“Did he confess?” I asked, my voice dead.
