Chapter 3: We Need to Talk
I stood in that hallway for a long moment after the building manager left.
He had taken the folder with him.
He said he needed to "verify the filing process internally" before he could make any determination about occupancy.
That was his way of saying he didn't know what to do with a forged signature and didn't want to be the one holding it when things got ugly.
Lorraine had already gone back inside.
She closed the door behind her.
My door.
I looked down at my phone.
Daniel's text was still on the screen.
*Mom says it went smoothly.
We need to talk when you're ready.*
I typed back four words.
*I'm ready right now.*
He called within thirty seconds.
"Claire, before you say anything—"
"She's in my apartment, Daniel."
"I know.
I know, and I can explain—"
"She has my grandmother's mug.
She took down every photo in the apartment.
And there is a title transfer document with my signature on it that I never signed."
Silence.
"Daniel."
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it.
Right now."
He exhaled slowly.
"Mom needed somewhere to stay.
Her building sold.
She had nowhere to go and I — I panicked.
I thought if I handled the paperwork quickly, we could talk about it properly when you got home."
"You forged my signature on a property transfer."
"I didn't forge anything.
I — the notary, he was a friend of Mom's, and he—"
"Stop." I pressed my back against the hallway wall.
"You used a fraudulent notary to transfer my apartment — the apartment I owned before we were married, the apartment that was never in your name — to your mother.
While I was away.
Without telling me."
"I was going to tell you."
"When?"
He didn't answer.
"When, Daniel?
After she'd changed the locks?
After she'd thrown out my grandmother's things?"
"She wouldn't have done that—"
"She already did." My voice didn't shake.
I was surprised by that.
"My photos are gone.
My grandmother's mug is in her hand right now.
And she told me to have the bedroom cleared by Friday."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"I'll talk to her," he said finally.
"I'll come over tonight and we'll all sit down and—"
"No." I pushed off the wall and walked toward the elevator.
"Don't come tonight.
I need to make a phone call first."
"Claire, who are you calling?"
I pressed the button for the lobby.
"An attorney," I said.
And I ended the call.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped in.
As they closed, I caught one last glimpse of the door to my apartment — Unit 12B — and the small brass numbers that had meant home for eleven years.
My phone was already ringing.
My college friend Ruth had been a property attorney for twenty years.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Claire?
It's been months.
What's going on?"
"Ruth," I said.
"Someone forged my signature to transfer my apartment deed.
I need to know exactly how bad this is."
A pause.
Then, very carefully: "Tell me everything."
I was still talking when the lobby doors opened and I walked out into the cold afternoon air.
May you like
Behind me, on the twelfth floor, Lorraine Marsh was sitting in my apartment in her satin robe, drinking from my grandmother's mug.
She had no idea who I had just called.
