Chapter 3 - The House They Thought Was Theirs
I read Laura’s message twice.
Margaret held out her hand.
“May I?”
I gave her the phone.
She read it, then placed the device face down.
“That’s not a request,” she said.
“No.”
“It’s leverage.”
“I know.”
For years, I would have defended Laura. She was tired. She was caught between her husband and her family. She did not mean it that way.
That morning, I did none of that.
Margaret asked what David needed the papers for.
I told her he claimed he was refinancing the lake property to complete renovations.
She froze.
“Refinancing what he does not own?”
“That was my question.”
Margaret asked for his company name. She opened a laptop and made two calls. On the second, she introduced herself as counsel for the titled owner of the Lake Azul property.
The conversation lasted less than four minutes.
When she hung up, she looked angry.
“David has been representing himself as an authorized co-owner.”
My stomach tightened.
“To whom?”
“A private lender.”
“For how much?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
Margaret turned the laptop toward me. There was a loan package attached to an application. Photographs of the lake house. Renovation estimates. Revenue projections for short-term luxury rentals.
And one document with my name typed beneath a signature line.
The signature above it was not mine.
I stared at it.
“No.”
Margaret’s voice hardened. “Elena, did you sign this?”
“No.”
“Did you give David power of attorney?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize Laura to sign on your behalf?”
“No.”
She printed the page.
The fake signature looked enough like mine to fool somebody who had seen my Christmas cards.
I thought of all the birthday checks I had written over the years.
All the school forms.
All the cards.
All the places my children could have copied my handwriting.
Margaret watched me carefully.
“We can stop the loan.”
“Do it.”
“We can also send a formal notice that David has no authority over the property.”
“Do that too.”
“And Elena?”
“Yes?”
“We need to talk about whether this crosses into fraud.”
My mouth went dry.
Before I could answer, the receptionist knocked on Margaret’s locked door.
“Ms. Shaw?” she called through the wood. “There’s a man in the lobby asking for Mrs. Morales.”
Margaret stood.
“Who?”
A pause.
“He says he’s her son-in-law.”
Then David’s voice carried down the hall.
May you like
“Elena! I know you’re in there.”
