“Make simple things difficult.”
I smiled.
“Perhaps.”
Then I stood.
“I’ll review the papers later.”
I walked inside.
Behind me, I heard Patrice whisper something to Robert.
I didn’t turn around.
I went upstairs.
My suitcase was still outside the master bedroom.
I picked it up.
Then I walked past the master bedroom and down the hallway.
The bunk room was empty.
Two small beds.
A dresser.
A window overlooking the pool.
I put my suitcase inside.
Then I noticed something sitting on the dresser.
A small black leather notebook.
It wasn’t mine.
I opened it.
The first page contained a list.
Names.
Dates.
Dollar amounts.
My name appeared halfway down the page.
Beside it were three words:
Property transfer — pending.
I stared at the page.
Then I turned another page.
There were notes about my bank account.
My retirement income.
The value of my house.
Even the approximate amount of money I had in savings.
My hands became cold.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Someone had been gathering information about me.
And they had been doing it quietly.
I photographed every page with my phone.
Then I put the notebook back exactly where I found it.
I went downstairs.
Karen was sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee.
She looked at me over her sunglasses.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
She smiled.
“I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am.”
She stirred her coffee.
“You know, Eleanor, Patrice told me you were having a difficult time adjusting.”
I almost laughed.
“Adjusting?”
“Yes.”
She smiled sympathetically.
“She said you’re very independent.”
“I am.”
“Sometimes that makes family trips difficult.”
I sat across from her.
“Does Patrice talk to you about my finances?”
Karen’s spoon stopped moving.
“What?”
“My finances.”
She blinked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would she?”
I watched her.
She looked away.
Then I noticed something on the counter.
A folder.
White.
With my full name printed on the front.
I stood.
Karen immediately reached for it.
“That’s private.”
I stopped.
“Private?”
“Yes.”
“Why is my name on it?”
She didn’t answer.
I reached for it.
Karen pulled it closer.
“Patrice asked me to keep it safe.”
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at her.
“You just said it was private.”
She hesitated.
Then she said:
“I shouldn’t be involved.”
That sentence told me more than any answer could have.
I walked away.
At ten that morning, the family left for the beach.
Patrice wanted everyone to go.
Everyone except me.
“Eleanor, you should rest,” she said.
I smiled.
“Good idea.”
They left.
The house became silent.
I waited ten minutes.
Then I called Margaret.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A notebook with my financial information.”
“Where?”
“In the house.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you photograph it?”
“Yes.”
“Send me the photos.”
I did.
A few minutes passed.
Then my phone rang.
Margaret’s voice was very serious.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“These notes aren’t normal.”
“I know.”
“Where did you get them?”
“In a room upstairs.”
“Listen to me carefully.”
I sat down.
“I’m listening.”
“Do not confront anyone until I verify what we’re dealing with.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is attempting to transfer an asset without your informed consent, you need to know exactly what they have done and what they haven’t done.”
My heart began beating faster.
“Can they transfer my property without me?”
“Not lawfully without proper authorization.”
“And if they have a document with my signature?”
“Then we need to determine whether it is genuine, what you signed, and under what circumstances.”
I looked toward the front door.
“What should I do?”
“Stay calm.”
“I am calm.”
“You’re not,” she said gently.
I laughed despite myself.
“No. I’m not.”
“Go enjoy your vacation.”
“What?”
“Let them believe you know nothing.”
I stared at the phone.
“You want me to pretend?”
“For now.”
“Why?”
“Because people reveal more when they think they’re in control.”
I sat silently.
Then Margaret added:
“And Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t sign anything.”
“I won’t.”
“And if they pressure you?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Good.”
The call ended.
I looked around the house.
Then I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.
The printer.
It was sitting on a small desk beside the dining room.
I walked over.
The paper tray was full.
I checked the top sheet.
It was a copy of my driver’s license.
My name.
My photograph.
My address.
And beneath it was another document.
Limited Power of Attorney.
I stopped breathing.
At the bottom of the page was a signature.
It looked like mine.
But it wasn’t.
I knew my own handwriting.
The signature was close.
Very close.
But not mine.
Someone had tried to copy it.
I took photographs.
Then I placed everything back.
I was about to walk away when the printer suddenly came alive.
A new document began printing.
I froze.
One page.
Then another.
Then another.
I waited until it stopped.
The final page contained a title that made my knees weaken.
AUTHORIZATION FOR PROPERTY SALE AND DISBURSEMENT OF PROCEEDS
My property.
My house.
My money.
Everything suddenly made sense.
The master bedroom.
The papers.
The secrecy.
The notebook.
The strange phone message.
They hadn’t brought me on vacation because they wanted family time.
They had brought me here because they wanted something from me.
And apparently, they believed they had found the perfect version of Eleanor Morrison.
The woman who adjusted.
The woman who didn’t complain.
The woman who trusted her son.
The woman who signed whatever was placed in front of her.
I picked up the papers.
Then I heard a car outside.
I looked through the window.
Robert’s car.
They were coming back.
I quickly placed everything exactly where I had found it.
Then I sat at the kitchen table and opened a magazine.
The front door opened.
Patrice walked in first.
She looked surprised to see me.
“Eleanor?”
I looked up.
“Oh, you’re back early.”
Robert followed her inside.
Patrice studied my face.
“Did you sleep?”
“Very well.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
She walked toward the printer.
I watched her from the corner of my eye.
She checked the tray.
Her expression changed.
Just slightly.
Then she looked at me.
“Did you use the printer?”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“You didn’t print anything?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Then she walked upstairs.
Robert remained behind.
He looked at me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did Patrice give you the papers?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign them?”
I smiled.
“No.”
His shoulders dropped.
For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Fear.
And that was when I knew there was much more to this than a bedroom.
I closed my magazine.
“Robert?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know who Susan is?”
His face went completely white.
He didn’t answer.
And before he could say a word, a woman’s voice came from the front doorway.
“Robert?”
We both turned.
A woman stood there holding a leather briefcase.
She was in her fifties, wearing a navy suit.
She looked at me.
Then at Robert.
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“Why is your mother still here?”
Robert didn’t move.
The woman slowly turned toward him.
“You told me she had already signed.”
My heart stopped.
Robert whispered:
“Susan…”
And suddenly I understood.
The message on Patrice’s phone hadn’t been from some distant person.
Susan wasn’t an outsider.
She was standing in the house.
And she had just admitted, in front of me, that someone had expected me to sign already.
