For several seconds, I believed Iris had made a mistake.
“Ernest never transferred the apartment.”
“That was my understanding.”
“He couldn’t have.”
“Why?”
“Because we reviewed the title together.”
“I know.”
“You reviewed it.”
“Yes.”
“Then how is there another document?”
“That is what I am trying to determine.”
I stood.
The room felt too small for panic.
“Is Austin the owner?”
“Not based on the title report we pulled.”
“Then what is this?”
“A recorded document can exist without having successfully transferred title. There are several reasons that can happen.”
“Such as?”
“Defects. Rejection. Improper execution. A filing that was superseded. Fraud.”
The last word chilled me.
“Fraud by whom?”
“I did not say there was fraud.”
“But you said it.”
“As a possibility.”
I began pacing between the bed and the balcony door.
“What exactly is the document?”
“A quitclaim deed.”
My stomach tightened.
I knew enough from our estate planning to recognize the term.
A quitclaim deed could transfer whatever ownership interest someone had in property.
“Whose names?”
“Ernest as grantor. Austin as grantee.”
“Mine?”
“Not listed.”
I stopped.
The apartment had been purchased in both our names.
Ernest could not simply transfer my ownership without me.
At least I believed that.
“Then it cannot be valid.”
“Not for your interest, no.”
“What about his?”
“That is more complicated.”
I looked at Ernest’s photograph.
Seven years earlier.
He had been healthy then.
Working part-time.
Driving Maya to school twice a week.
The idea that he might secretly give Austin half the apartment was not impossible.
But it did not fit the man who later worked with me and Iris to place the property into the trust.
“Did he ever mention this deed to you?”
“No.”
“Could he have signed something without understanding what it was?”
“Ernest read restaurant receipts twice.”
“I remember.”
“He would not sign a deed casually.”
“Usually, no.”
Usually.
That word bothered me.
“Iris.”
“Yes?”
“What aren’t you saying?”
She paused.
“The signature looks real.”
My mouth went dry.
“You recognize it?”
“I compared it with estate documents.”
“And?”
“It is very similar.”
I sat.
“Very similar?”
“I am not a handwriting expert.”
“Was it notarized?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“A notary named Leonard Pike.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Do we know him?”
“I don’t.”
“Does Austin?”
“I haven’t asked.”
“Where was it recorded?”
“Miami-Dade.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago. May fourteenth.”
The date stirred something.
May fourteenth.
I closed my eyes and searched my memory.
Seven years earlier had been the year Ernest underwent shoulder surgery.
Spring.
He spent several weeks unable to drive.
Austin helped more than usual.
He took Ernest to appointments.
Picked up prescriptions.
Handled errands.
May fourteenth.
I stood again.
“What day of the week was that?”
“I can check.”
I heard her typing.
“Thursday.”
A memory surfaced.
Not complete.
Just fragments.
Ernest in a sling.
Austin at our dining table.
A stack of papers.
“Wait.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“I remember documents.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“He was helping Ernest with something after the surgery.”
“Austin?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of paperwork?”
“I thought insurance.”
“Medical?”
“Maybe.”
I hated how uncertain it sounded.
I had made coffee that morning.
I remembered Ernest complaining because Austin kept placing papers on top of the newspaper.
I remembered leaving for the pharmacy.
When I returned, they were finished.
That was all.
“Could Ernest have signed the deed that day?”
“I don’t know.”
Iris let the silence remain.
Then she said, “I need your permission to investigate.”
“You have it.”
“This could become unpleasant.”
“It already is.”
“If Austin believes the deed gives him ownership, his lawyer may challenge the trust.”
“Can he?”
“Anyone can challenge almost anything. Winning is another matter.”
I heard papers shifting on her end.
“The immediate question is whether Ernest knowingly signed this.”
“And if he did?”
“Then we need to determine what he intended.”
“And if he didn’t?”
Iris’s voice became flat.
“Then someone forged or misrepresented a property transfer.”
My chest tightened.
I thought of Austin standing at our dining table seven years earlier.
No.
I refused to jump that far.
“I’m not accusing my son.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“I need facts.”
“So do I.”
Iris promised to obtain the original filing, not merely the digital scan.
She would also trace Leonard Pike.
Before hanging up, she said something that stayed with me.
“Theresa, do not confront Austin about this yet.”
“Why?”
“Because if this is innocent, confrontation creates unnecessary damage. If it is not innocent, you do not want to tell anyone what we are looking for.”
I agreed.
Then I called room service coffee because my hands were shaking too badly to trust myself with the buffet.
By nine, the ship had entered Nassau.
Passengers crowded the rails as brightly painted buildings came into view.
I had imagined this moment months earlier while Ernest slept.
My first foreign port.
I pictured myself taking photographs, walking through markets, maybe buying a ridiculous hat.
Instead I sat on my balcony wondering whether my husband had secretly transferred property to our son.
Grief has terrible timing.
Just when you think you understand the dead, another version of them appears.
My phone rang.
Austin.
I let it ring twice, then answered.
“Morning.”
“Mom.”
His voice sounded cautious.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
That almost made me laugh.
He continued.
“Chloe told me she called you.”
“She did.”
“Did she tell you everything?”
“She told me what you told her about the apartment.”
He exhaled.
“I screwed up.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think of it as lying.”
I said nothing.
“I know that sounds bad.”
“It does.”
“I just thought eventually it would be mine.”
“That is not the same as owning it.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
He went quiet.
That answer mattered.
Finally he said, “Yeah.”
I appreciated the honesty even though it hurt.
“Why did you tell her?”
“I wanted her to marry me.”
The words surprised me.
“What?”
“She was scared.”
“Of what?”
“My finances.”
I leaned back.
This was before Maya.
Before the apartment.
Austin had been thirty.
He had changed jobs twice in eighteen months.
He owed money on two credit cards and a truck.
Chloe, apparently, had reservations.
“So you told her you had property?”
“I told her you and Dad were giving us one.”
“Before we agreed to buy anything.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
That was worse than I expected.
“Did Ernest know you told her?”
“No.”
“Did you ever plan to correct it?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
“Then you bought the apartment.”
As if reality had almost caught up with the lie.
Almost.
“You let coincidence do the work.”
“I guess.”
“No. You chose.”
He became defensive.
“Okay. I chose.”
We sat with that.
Then Austin said, “I’m trying here.”
“I know.”
“Everything is blowing up at once.”
“That happens when old things are finally discussed.”
He sighed.
“Dad’s letter messed me up.”
“In what way?”
“He thought I could be better.”
“Yes.”
“I thought he was disappointed in me.”
“He was sometimes.”
“Thanks.”
“You asked.”
He laughed despite himself.
That sound gave me hope.
Not because everything was fixed.
Because he was beginning to tolerate answers he did not enjoy.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“What happens with the account?”
The thirty-two thousand dollars.
I had expected that question.
“I haven’t decided.”
“I’m not asking for it.”
“Good.”
“I mean, I am asking what happens, but I’m not asking you to give it to me.”
“That distinction helps.”
“I called the bank.”
My body tensed.
“What bank?”
“The one Dad mentioned.”
“Why?”
“To see if the account exists.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
I sat straighter.
“You verified it?”
“They wouldn’t tell me the balance because I’m not authorized, but it exists.”
That was useful.
Then Austin said something unexpected.
“I don’t want it right now.”
“Why?”
“Because if you give it to me now, Chloe will think I manipulated you.”
“She might.”
“And honestly…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I might use it wrong.”
I looked out at the blue water.
That sentence was the first evidence of change that did not come from fear.
“What would wrong mean?”
“Paying off things without fixing why we have them.”
I felt something inside me loosen.
“What things?”
“Credit cards.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Hundred?”
“Thousand.”
My heart sank.
“Austin.”
“I know.”
“Does Chloe know?”
“Some.”
“Some?”
“She knows about fourteen.”
I stood.
“Then you are still lying.”
“I know.”
“You called me to confess one lie while continuing another.”
“I know!”
The volume of his answer startled both of us.
He lowered his voice.
“I know.”
“Tell her.”
“She might leave.”
I thought about that carefully.
“That is not a reason to lie.”
“You can say that from a ship.”
The cruelty was mild.
The resentment underneath it was not.
I almost snapped back.
Instead I said, “Yes. I can.”
He was silent.
“I left,” I continued, “because I could no longer be the place everyone put consequences.”
Austin breathed slowly.
“That sounds like Dad.”
“He learned late.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
That stopped me.
For the first time, he had placed himself inside the problem without being forced.
Before I could answer, someone knocked at my cabin door.
Room service.
I told Austin I needed to go.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to tell Chloe tonight.”
“Good.”
“And I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“The apartment. Dad. Calling you selfish this morning.”
“You didn’t call me selfish.”
“I thought it.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I’ve thought worse about you.”
“Comforting.”
“I love you.”
The words came naturally.
He became quiet.
“I love you too.”
We ended the call.
I opened the cabin door, accepted coffee, and tipped the attendant.
For nearly an hour, I allowed myself to believe we had reached something solid.
Then Iris called.
“I found Leonard Pike.”
My hand froze around the cup.
“And?”
“He died three years ago.”
I exhaled.
“That’s not helpful.”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
She paused.
“He worked for a document preparation company.”
“What kind?”
“Taxes, deeds, powers of attorney, immigration forms.”
“Okay.”
“Theresa, his business address was in the same strip mall where Austin worked seven years ago.”
I set the coffee down.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying proximity is not proof.”
“But?”
“But Leonard Pike notarized more than one document connected to your son.”
The cabin seemed suddenly silent.
“How many?”
“At least four.”
“What documents?”
“Two vehicle transfers.”
I waited.
“One affidavit.”
“And?”
Iris inhaled.
“A power of attorney.”
“For whom?”
“For Ernest.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Power of Attorney Was Supposed to Help Ernest Recover From Surgery, but Its Hidden Language Pointed Toward a Betrayal None of Us Expected
Nine Days After I Buried My Husband, My Son Asked a Question That Made Grief Feel Like the Smaller Problem
Part 7 of 25
