“What papers, Jake?”
He hung up.
For a long moment, I stared at the dead screen, feeling the first real crack of fear beneath my decision.
Then my email chimed.
A new message from a title company I had never heard of.
Subject: Final executed documents — Whitaker family property sale.
My hand shook once before I opened it, and the attachment loaded slowly, page by page, until I saw my name printed under Seller.
Not my mother’s name.
Mine.
And beneath it, in blue digital ink, was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
I didn’t leave work early.
That sounds ridiculous now, but at the time it felt like the only normal thing left to do.
I finished entering claim numbers. I answered two emails. I even laughed when Denise from accounting stopped by and complained about her ex-husband’s new girlfriend naming her sourdough starter “Deborah.” All the while, the PDF sat open in a minimized window like a snake under a blanket.
At 4:55, I shut down my computer, put my little ceramic fox in my purse, and walked to the elevator on legs that felt borrowed.
Outside, the air had that metallic Denver cold that makes every breath feel like chewing foil. I dragged my suitcase from the trunk of my car. It was already packed because I had planned to go straight to the airport. Three sweaters, two pairs of jeans, my laptop, the folder from my own condo closing, and one photograph of my father standing beside a lake with a trout in one hand and me on his hip.
I had almost left the picture behind.
Now I was glad I hadn’t.
The airport shuttle smelled like wet wool and diesel. I sat in the back, pressed against the window, and opened the attachment again.
The property address was 418 Sycamore Lane.
The house.
The most important part is just ahead — click NEXT »»
