Chapter 6: Christmas Morning
Patricia Holt's office was above a dry cleaner on a street that was empty at nine in the morning on Christmas Day.
She met us at the door in a wool sweater and reading glasses pushed up on her head, and she shook my hand like someone who had been expecting me for a while.
"Sit down," she said.
"Let me see what you have."
She read through the mortgage document without speaking.
She listened to forty seconds of the USB recording, stopped it, and listened to another thirty seconds from a different point.
She made three notes on a yellow legal pad.
Then she looked up.
"How old were you when this mortgage was taken out?"
"Twenty-two."
"And you have no memory of signing this document."
"None."
"Do you have any documents from that period — lease agreements, bank letters, anything with your authentic signature that we can use for comparison?"
"My employment contract.
My car loan.
Both from the same year."
"Get me copies of both." She set down her pen.
"The signature on this mortgage is close.
But close isn't the same as identical, and a forensic document examiner will find the differences." She tapped the legal pad.
"The recording is more immediately useful.
Your father describes the account structure in enough detail that it establishes intent.
That matters."
"What are we looking at?" Diane asked.
"Potentially: mortgage fraud, identity fraud, financial exploitation." Patricia looked at me.
"The life insurance beneficiary change is a separate matter but it compounds the picture.
Taken together, this is a pattern, not a mistake."
I had slept two hours on Diane's couch.
My coat was still damp from the walk over.
I felt very calm in a way that didn't feel like calm so much as the place on the other side of it.
"What do I do first?" I said.
"First, you do nothing that alerts them.
Do not contact your father, your mother, or your brother today.
Do not send any messages.
Do not make any financial moves beyond what you've already done." She paused.
"You cancelled the autopayments last night?"
"Yes."
"Good.
That's already on record with your bank.
Keep it that way." She closed the folder.
"I'm going to make some calls this week.
I want to speak with Gerald Fitch directly.
I want the original documents if he has them.
And I want to know who witnessed the beneficiary change on that insurance policy."
"How long does this take?"
Patricia looked at me over her reading glasses.
"Faster than they think," she said.
"Slower than you want."
She walked us out.
On the sidewalk, Diane and I stood in the thin Christmas morning light and neither of us had anything to say for a moment.
"Are you all right?" Diane asked.
"I don't know yet."
"That's honest."
A car moved slowly down the empty street.
Someone's holiday music drifted from an upper window.
"I need to find somewhere to stay," I said.
"You can stay with me.
For as long as you need."
I looked at her.
She had my hands and a folder full of evidence and a lawyer on speed dial on Christmas morning, and she was asking nothing in return.
"Okay," I said.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Mason.
*Mom is crying.
Dad won't talk.
Whatever you think you're doing, just stop.
Come home.*
I put the phone back in my pocket without answering.
We walked to Diane's car.
The snow had stopped.
The street was very white and very quiet.
My phone buzzed again.
May you like
Then again.
I didn't check it.
