Chapter 6: What Patricia Found
Patricia Holt's office was quiet in the way that serious offices always are — no music, no television in the waiting area, just low voices behind closed doors and the sound of a printer running somewhere down the hall.
I sat across from her desk with the original document, my photographs, and two pages of handwritten notes I had made that morning after leaving Mom's room.
Patricia read everything without speaking.
When she finished, she set the pages down and folded her hands on the desk.
"Tell me about her medication," she said.
"What is she currently taking?"
I listed what I knew.
The post-surgical pain management.
The blood thinners.
The sedative the cardiologist had prescribed for sleep.
Patricia wrote it down.
"That sedative alone creates significant questions about her capacity at the time of signing.
Combined with her recovery state—" She tapped her pen twice.
"This is a viable challenge.
The question is whether he has already attempted to record or file this transfer."
"Can we find that out today?"
"I already pulled the county records while you were on your way here." She turned her monitor slightly so I could see it.
"He filed it eight days ago."
Eight days ago.
Three days after the notary stamp.
He hadn't wasted a single morning.
"Can it be reversed?" I asked.
"We can file an emergency petition to freeze any action on the property while the capacity challenge is reviewed.
I want to do that today." She paused.
"I also want to know if there are other documents.
A transfer form is specific — it takes preparation.
This didn't come out of nowhere.
Do you have access to your mother's financial accounts?
Her will?
Any existing power of attorney?"
"I don't know what she has.
I never needed to look."
"Then I'd like your permission to request a full review of any recorded documents filed in your mother's name in the last eighteen months."
Eighteen months.
The number sat in my chest like a stone.
"Do it," I said.
She made a call from the desk while I sat there.
Brief, professional, specific.
When she hung up, she turned back to me.
"One more thing.
Your son witnessed this directly.
I know he's eight — I'm not suggesting we put him in front of anyone — but I want a written, dated account of what he saw and when, in your words, as his mother.
That becomes part of the record."
"I already wrote it down this morning."
She looked at me steadily.
"Good.
You moved fast."
"My son moved faster," I said.
"He figured this out before I did."
She allowed herself a small, quiet expression that wasn't quite a smile.
"Children usually do."
I signed what needed to be signed.
Patricia walked me through the next steps — the freeze petition, the capacity review request, the formal challenge to the transfer.
She was clear and methodical and I was grateful for every word because my own mind kept sliding sideways toward the thing I couldn't stop thinking about.
Eighteen months.
If Nicolas had been doing this for eighteen months, then it hadn't started with the property.
It had started somewhere smaller.
Something easier.
Something my mother might not even remember now.
I drove home with both hands on the wheel and the radio off.
When I pulled into the driveway, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost let it go.
Then I picked up.
"Is this the daughter?" A woman's voice.
Older.
Cautious.
"Yes.
Who is this?"
"My name is Rosemary.
I live two streets over." A pause.
"I was your mother's neighbor for twelve years before she moved in with you.
I heard through her friend Carol that she's been unwell."
"She's recovering," I said carefully.
"I see." Another pause.
"I'm calling because I need to tell you something.
Something I should have said a long time ago." Her voice dropped.
"Your brother came to see me eight months ago.
He wanted me to witness a document.
He said it was routine.
He said your mother had already agreed."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"Did you sign it?" I asked.
The silence on the other end told me everything before she spoke.
May you like
"I did," she said.
"And I have been sick about it every day since."
