Chapter 2 - The Woman Behind the Seal
I called the unfamiliar number three times.
Nobody answered.
On the fourth attempt, a recorded message said the subscriber was unavailable.
I saved the photograph in two places, emailed it to myself, and printed a copy on the old laser printer Frank had insisted would outlive us both.
Then I called Beth.
She answered from Oregon on the first ring.
“Mom, are you okay?”
I hadn't told her about Christmas.
The question alone almost undid me.
“No,” I said.
And because my daughter knew when not to interrupt, I told her everything.
I described the argument over Frank's pot, Eric's order to leave, Rachel's texts about soccer fees, the binder, and the phone call about the supposed release.
When I finished, Beth was silent for a moment.
Then she said, “Do not sign anything, don't promise anything, and send me that picture.”
“I'm not going to sign.”
“Mom, that's not all I'm worried about.”
“What else?”
“If someone forged your signature, why would they suddenly need you to confirm it?”
I looked again at the page.
The document was supposedly almost two years old.
If it had been accepted without trouble, nobody would be begging me to verify it now.
“Something has gone wrong,” I said.
“Or something is about to.”
Beth asked for the name of the attorney who handled our original loan.
His name was Thomas Vale, a meticulous Columbus real-estate lawyer who wore bow ties on ordinary Tuesdays and explained every agreement as though he were speaking to a jury.
He had retired from his old firm the previous spring but still consulted on select cases.
When I called, his assistant put me through after I mentioned the release.
“Marianne,” he said, his voice suddenly serious, “do you have the original?”
“Only a photograph.”
“Forward it now.”
I heard typing as he opened the attachment.
Then the typing stopped.
“Well,” he said quietly.
I disliked that one word more than I would have disliked shouting.
“Is it real?”
“It appears to be a recorded form, but I won't make conclusions from an image.”
“I didn't sign it.”
“Then we're going to verify the county records and find out who prepared it.”
“Can someone take my lien off the house using a false signature?”
“If a fraudulent release was recorded, the public record may show the lien as satisfied even though the underlying debt and your rights remain disputed.”
His language was careful, which made me trust him.
“Can they sell the house?”
“A title company ought to investigate if it sees a problem, but we need facts before assuming anything.”
I asked about the notary.
He read the name aloud.
“Dana Whitcomb.”
It took me back to the cookout.
Rachel had stood beside a stylish brunette in a white blazer, bragging about a new venture that would make traditional real-estate companies obsolete.
“Dana knows everybody who matters in property,” she had said.
At the time, I thought it was ordinary boasting.
Now I remembered Dana watching me sign a birthday card for Chloe, a long look that had made me self-conscious.
Thomas told me to preserve every message and avoid confronting Dana directly.
He would request certified copies of the records and examine the notarial information.
“Marianne,” he added, “have you seen anything else unusual?”
I thought about Rachel urging me to give them a copy of my driver's license the previous year so she could supposedly add me as an emergency contact at school.
I had declined because Chloe's school already had my information.
Then I remembered something more troubling.
Last February Eric had visited me with a scanner he'd bought, offering to digitize my paperwork so I could get rid of the bulky binder.
I had allowed him to scan our family photographs and some utility records.
But he'd asked twice for the loan folder.
I had refused.
“You always think people are trying to cheat you,” he had joked.
He hadn't been smiling when he said it.
I told Thomas.
He went quiet again.
“We should keep that in mind.”
At four that afternoon, a dark SUV slowed in front of my house.
It stopped across the street for nearly a minute.
I watched from behind the curtain as the driver lifted a phone, apparently photographing my driveway.
The SUV pulled away before I could read its plate.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Rachel read: WE COULD HAVE SETTLED THIS AS A FAMILY.
I stared at the words until the screen went dark.
A family.
She used that word the way someone uses a padlock.
Then another message appeared from the unknown number.
ASK ABOUT THE OPEN HOUSE ON SATURDAY.
I walked to my computer and searched the address where my son had just ordered me to leave.
The first result was a listing that made my breath stop.
May you like
The house was for sale.
