Chapter 4: Copies of Everything
I carried the deed back to the kitchen and set it beside the forged transfer document.
Andy leaned over.
He looked at both pages for a long moment without speaking.
"They're different," he finally said.
"Yes."
"The signatures are different."
"Yes."
He straightened up slowly.
"How long has this one been in your cabinet?"
That was the question I had been turning over since the moment I opened the folder.
I could not answer it with certainty, and that uncertainty was the most unsettling thing I had felt since the glass hit my temple.
"I don't know," I said.
"I haven't had reason to open that folder in two years."
Andy sat down heavily.
"She's been in this house for fourteen months," he said.
I called Patricia back.
She listened without interrupting while I described the substituted deed.
When I finished, she said, "I need you to do something before you touch anything else.
I need you to photograph that document exactly as you found it — the folder, the position, everything — and then I need you to lock it somewhere she cannot access."
"She's in police custody."
"For now," Patricia said.
"Depending on how the charges are handled, she may be released by morning.
Do not assume you have more time than you do."
I photographed the folder, the filing cabinet, the deed in position.
Then I locked the cabinet and put the key in my coat pocket.
"Patricia," I said.
"She left a note saying she has copies of everything.
And something else she hasn't shown us yet."
A pause.
"That's a negotiating threat.
She's telling you she's prepared to fight."
"I know what it is.
I spent thirty years listening to people make that exact move."
"Then you know what comes next."
"She'll make contact," I said.
"She'll offer a version of events where this is all a misunderstanding.
She'll want something in exchange for making it go away quietly."
"And when she does?"
"I'll let her talk," I said.
"People always say more than they mean to when they believe they're winning."
I ended the call and looked at Andy.
He had the shoebox open again.
He was holding one of the sealed envelopes, turning it over in his hands without opening it.
"She told me once," he said, not looking up, "that her mother lost a house.
When she was twelve.
A landlord found a legal loophole and they were out in thirty days." He set the envelope down.
"She talked about it like it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her family.
I felt sorry for her."
"Andy."
He looked up.
"Feeling sorry for someone does not make what they do to you acceptable."
He nodded.
But his eyes were somewhere else.
The call came at 7:14 the next morning.
Not from Carly's number.
From a number I didn't recognize.
I answered it because Patricia had told me to answer everything and say as little as possible.
"Is this Judge Harmon?" A man's voice.
Smooth.
Professionally neutral.
"Who is calling?"
"My name is Derek Foss.
I'm an attorney.
I represent Carly Harmon.
I'm reaching out because my client believes there may have been a misunderstanding last night, and she'd very much like to resolve this privately before it becomes a more complicated matter for everyone involved."
I sat down at the kitchen table.
"Go on," I said.
"My client acknowledges that the evening became heated.
She deeply regrets any distress caused.
She's prepared to discuss a mutual resolution — one that would allow both parties to move forward without further legal entanglement."
"What kind of resolution?"
A brief pause.
Calculated.
"My client would be willing to return the documents in question and withdraw any related filings, in exchange for a written agreement that no criminal charges are pursued and that she and her husband are permitted to remain in the property for a transitional period of six months."
I let the silence sit for a moment.
"Mr.
Foss," I said.
"Your client forged my signature on a property transfer document using an invalid notary seal, substituted a fraudulent deed in my personal files, and drafted a beneficiary clause that would have transferred my home to her upon my death.
She also threw a crystal glass at my head and required me to receive six stitches.
And she is asking me, as the opening position, to allow her to continue living in my home for six more months."
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
"My client maintains that the documents were prepared in good faith based on conversations she believed she had with you."
"She forged my signature."
"She disputes that characterization."
"The notary whose seal appears on that document surrendered his license eighteen months ago.
That is not a characterization.
That is a fact your client will need to explain to a prosecutor."
The smoothness in his voice thinned slightly.
"Judge Harmon, I'd encourage you to consider the cost and stress of a prolonged legal process.
My client is prepared to be reasonable."
"So am I," I said.
"Have her attorney contact Patricia Howe.
My attorney's number is available through the state bar directory.
Any further communication should go through her."
I ended the call.
Andy was standing in the doorway.
He had heard enough.
"She already had a lawyer," he said.
"She had a lawyer before the police arrived last night," I said.
"That call was placed the moment she was released this morning."
He leaned against the doorframe.
"She planned for this too."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Derek Foss.
I've heard that name."
I looked at him.
"Carly mentioned him once.
About eight months ago.
She said he was a friend who did property work." Andy's expression shifted.
"I thought she meant a real estate agent."
I thought about the storage unit lease.
The title company letter.
The credit application.
"He's not a new contact," I said.
"He's been part of this for a while."
Andy pushed off the doorframe and walked to the table.
He picked up the sealed envelope he'd been holding the night before and finally tore it open.
Inside was a photograph.
He stared at it.
Then he turned it so I could see.
It was a picture of my filing cabinet.
Taken from inside my study.
The cabinet was open.
The deed folder was visible.
May you like
The timestamp in the corner read fourteen months ago.
Three days after Carly moved in.
