PART4

He slowly turned the statement around.

The company name was unfamiliar.

But the registered director’s name wasn’t.

It was Karen.

I couldn’t speak.

“She moved the money two days before Mom was taken to the facility?”

“That’s what the statement indicates. We need to establish the legal authority for that transfer and where the funds went.”

“Can she do that?”

“That depends on the account ownership, the trust documents, and the precise scope of her authority. But this is something that needs immediate investigation.”

I stared at the statement.

Then my phone vibrated.

A message from Karen.

Where are you? I just received a call from someone asking about Mom’s house. What exactly are you doing?

I didn’t respond.

Another message arrived.

Beth, I hope you’re not making this into something it isn’t. Mom is safe. Everything I did was for her.

Then a third.

You have no idea how difficult the last few months have been for me.

I read the messages silently.

For years, I had felt guilty for living far away.

I had apologized for not being physically present.

I had thanked Karen repeatedly for handling everything.

And now, sitting in an attorney’s office, I was looking at documents suggesting that the person I had trusted most with our mother’s care might have been taking advantage of her.

Mr. Fenwick placed his hand on the file.

“Beth, I recommend that you do not confront your sister yet.”

“Why?”

“Because we have not finished examining the documents.”

He opened the final folder.

Inside was a photograph.

It showed Mom sitting at the kitchen table in her old house.

She was holding a piece of paper.

Karen was standing behind her.

I recognized the date written on the back.

February 6.

Three days before the move.

“What is this?”

“Your mother gave it to me during her January visit. She told me she wanted evidence of something that happened shortly before she was removed from the property.”

I turned the photograph over.

There was another handwritten note.

This is the document Karen wanted me to sign. I refused. She told me I would regret it.

My eyes moved to the paper in the photograph.

It wasn’t a medical authorization.

It was a document titled:

PROPERTY TRANSFER AND BENEFICIAL INTEREST AGREEMENT.

And at the bottom, there was a signature that looked remarkably like my mother’s.

Except my mother had never signed it.

I looked at Mr. Fenwick.

“Someone forged her signature.”

He didn’t immediately answer.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“Beth, that document was submitted to another office before your mother entered the care home.”

“Which office?”

He slid a second sheet across the desk.

It contained a filing reference and a date.

And beneath it was the name of a person who had witnessed the signature.

I recognized the name.

It was Karen’s husband.

My brother-in-law.

But the worst part was still waiting.

Because according to the filing record, the document had been submitted to transfer an interest in the property to a company that Karen controlled.

And the transfer had been recorded just four days before the house was sold.

I sat motionless.

The house had been sold for $290,000.

Karen had told me the money went toward Mom’s care.

But if the trust documents were valid, and if the later property transfer was unauthorized, then the sale might be far more complicated than anyone had told me.

I gathered the papers.

“I need to see my mother.”

Mr. Fenwick nodded.

“I agree. But before you do, there’s one more thing.”

He pulled out a small white envelope.

“Your mother asked me to give you this only after you had seen the bank records.”

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph of my mother and father standing in front of their house on Oakwood.

Dad had his arm around Mom.

They were both smiling.

On the back, Mom had written one sentence.

The house was never the most important thing we left behind. The most important thing was the family we hoped would protect one another.

I began crying again.

And just as I put the photograph back into the envelope, my phone rang.

Karen.

I answered.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then she said:

“Beth, I know you’ve been talking to Mr. Fenwick.”

My heart started pounding.

“How?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Someone contacted me this morning.”

I looked at the attorney.

He shook his head slightly, signaling me to remain calm.

Karen continued.

“Listen carefully. Whatever Mom told you, whatever papers you found, you need to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t understand what happened.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Silence.

Then Karen lowered her voice.

“You want the truth? Fine. But you need to understand that I did what I had to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I sacrificed everything to take care of Mom while you sat two states away making your Sunday phone calls.”

I closed my eyes.

“Karen, where is the $175,000?”

There was a long pause.

When she finally spoke, her voice had completely changed.

“Who told you about that?”

I looked at the bank statement.

“Where is the money?”

She hung up.

I stared at my phone.

Then it rang again.

But this time, it wasn’t Karen.

It was the care home.

A woman introduced herself as the facility administrator.

“Mrs. Carlson, I’m calling because your mother has been asking to speak with you. She says there’s something important she needs to tell you before your sister comes to visit tomorrow.”

I stood up.

“What does she want to tell me?”

The administrator hesitated.

Then she said:

“Your mother told one of our nurses that she remembers where the original property documents are.”

I gripped the edge of the desk.

“Where?”

The administrator lowered her voice.

“She says your sister took the wrong copy.”

And suddenly, I understood.

The documents Mom had hidden in the house might not have been the only originals.

There was another set.

And Mom knew exactly where it was.

But what I didn’t know was that Karen was already on her way to the care home—and she had no idea I was about to arrive first.

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART5…