Chapter 7: The Trap That Was Still Being Set
I sat with the document in my hands for a long time without speaking.
My mother watched me.
She had gone very still in the way she went still when she was bracing for something.
"They gave that to me last week," she said.
"Melissa said it was a formality.
Something to do with taxes.
She said you had already agreed to it."
"I hadn't agreed to anything."
"I know." Her voice was quiet.
"I didn't sign it.
I didn't know why, exactly.
Something felt wrong.
So I put it in the box."
I looked at her.
"You kept it."
"I kept it."
I photographed every page and sent it to Patricia within the hour.
Her response came back in eleven minutes.
*This is a quitclaim deed drafted to transfer title from you to Derek.
Your mother's name on the witness line would have made it appear she consented.
The notary line is blank — they were waiting for a signing date.
Do not let that document out of your possession.
We need to talk today.*
I called her from the back porch.
"They were planning to have her witness the transfer of her own home," I said.
"Yes."
"And she would have thought she was signing a tax form."
"That appears to be the plan." Patricia's voice was steady.
"This changes the nature of what we're dealing with.
The bank withdrawals could be argued as a misunderstanding of the power of attorney's scope.
This cannot.
This is an attempt to permanently transfer real property through deception."
"What do we do?"
"First — do you know if Derek has a copy of this document?"
"I don't know."
"Assume he does.
Which means when he realizes your mother didn't sign it and the date is approaching, he may try again.
Or he may try something else." A pause.
"Has he contacted you since Saturday night?"
"One text.
He said he wanted to talk when things calmed down."
"Don't respond yet.
Let me make some calls first." Another pause.
"Claire, I want to bring in a colleague who handles financial elder @buse cases.
What you've described — the power of attorney, the redirected mail, the withdrawals, and now this deed — this is a pattern.
It's not a family dispute anymore."
I leaned against the porch railing.
The backyard was quiet.
The patio my mother had been scrubbing on her hands and knees four days ago was dry now, ordinary, just concrete in the afternoon light.
"What does that mean for Derek?" I asked.
"It means this may not stay civil," Patricia said.
"Depending on what my colleague finds, there could be a referral to Adult Protective Services and potentially to the district attorney's office."
I had not let myself think that far ahead.
I thought about it now.
"He's my brother," I said.
"I know."
"He let her get sl@pped.
He took her money.
He was going to take her house." I said it out loud, slowly, the way you say something you have been avoiding.
"He's still my brother."
"Yes," Patricia said.
"And your mother is still your mother.
What do you want to do?"
I looked through the back window.
My mother was at the kitchen table, both hands around her mug, looking out at nothing.
She had the look of someone who had been holding their breath for two years and was only now beginning to let it out.
"I want her to be safe," I said.
"Whatever that takes."
"Then let me do my job," Patricia said.
Derek called that evening.
I let it ring.
He called again an hour later.
On the third call I picked up.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Just us.
No lawyers."
"We have lawyers now, Derek."
A long pause.
"Melissa didn't mean for things to go this far."
"Which part?" I said.
"The sl@pping?
The money?
Or the deed she was planning to have Mom witness without telling her what it was?"
Silence.
"You found that," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Mom kept it," I said.
"She knew something was wrong."
Another silence, longer this time.
When he spoke again his voice had changed — something had gone out of it, some last remaining structure.
"I didn't know about the deed," he said.
"I swear to you.
That was Melissa.
I didn't know."
I didn't say anything.
"Claire.
I didn't know."
"Then you'd better be ready to say that to someone other than me," I said.
And I ended the call.
My phone lit up again twenty minutes later.
May you like
Not Derek this time.
Melissa.
