Chapter 4: What Wyatt Knew
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat at the kitchen table in the apartment I'd been renting since the house sold — a place I'd chosen specifically because it had no connection to my family, no history, no furniture they had ever touched.
I spread everything out in front of me: the geotechnical survey, the settlement documents Raymond had handed over, the Power of Attorney with my forged signature, and Dennis Holt's photograph in its manila envelope.
I looked at each item for a long time.
Then I called my attorney.
---
Vera Simms had handled Wyatt's estate.
She was sixty-one, sharp, and had a voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
She picked up on the second ring despite it being nearly midnight.
"Sabrina.
Tell me you're not calling because something happened to you."
"Nothing happened to me," I said.
"But I need to tell you some things, and I need you to tell me what they mean legally."
I talked for twenty minutes.
She didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, there was a silence that lasted long enough that I checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"The forged Power of Attorney alone is felony fraud," she said.
"Depending on how the DA wants to file it, Raymond could also be looking at elder financial exploitation statutes — those carry enhanced penalties in this state."
"He's not elderly."
"You are the surviving spouse of a man who d*ed while this fraud was being planned.
The statutes are broader than people think." I heard her pen moving.
"The photograph and Dennis Holt's statement are a separate matter entirely.
That is not a civil issue."
"I know."
"Sabrina.
If what this man is saying is accurate — if Wyatt was followed that night because of what he knew — that is a criminal investigation.
You cannot manage that yourself."
"I'm not going to manage it myself.
I'm going to give you everything and let you tell me who to call."
"Good." Another pause.
"How are you holding up?"
I looked at Wyatt's survey on the table.
He had commissioned it quietly, carefully, without telling me — probably because he hadn't wanted me to worry.
He had known about the subsidence risk.
He had managed it for years, maintaining the supports, keeping the ground stable, protecting the house we had built together.
And when he found out my father was trying to steal it, he had gone to confront him face to face.
That was Wyatt.
He never sent a letter when he could look someone in the eye.
"I'm fine," I told Vera.
"You're not," she said.
"But you will be."
---
The next morning I drove to the county recorder's office and requested the full transaction history on the property.
The clerk, a young woman named Patrice, pulled the file and set it on the counter.
"Anything specific you're looking for?"
"The Power of Attorney used in the October sale.
I want the original filing number and the notary stamp."
Patrice found it in under two minutes.
She slid it across to me and watched my face as I read it.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"The notary stamp," I said.
"This notary — do you have a license number on file?"
She typed something.
Her expression shifted slightly.
"That notary license expired in 2019."
I wrote the number down.
"Can I get a certified copy of this page?"
"Of course." She hesitated.
"Ma'am — if there's a problem with this filing, you can request a formal title review.
The county has a process."
"I know," I said.
"I'm a licensed Real Estate Appraiser.
I've seen this process from the other side." I picked up my certified copy.
"I just needed to confirm what I already suspected."
I was back in my car when my phone rang.
It was Alyssa.
I let it ring.
Then it rang again.
And again.
On the fourth call I picked up.
"Sabrina." Her voice was different from the night before.
The cruelty was gone.
What was left sounded almost like fear.
"We need to talk.
Not with Dad.
Just us."
"I'm listening."
"Not on the phone.
Please."
I looked at the certified copy on the passenger seat.
The expired notary stamp.
Dennis Holt's photograph in my bag.
Vera's voice from the night before: *You cannot manage that yourself.*
"Coffee shop on Meridian," I said.
May you like
"One hour."
She was already there when I arrived.
