Chapter 4 - The Thermostat Upstairs
“Turn off the porch light,” Linda said the moment I opened the door.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Please.”
Ethan stepped beside me.
“Linda?”
She looked over her shoulder.
Margaret's car had slowed near the corner.
Linda pushed past us.
“Close the door.”
I did.
Ethan locked it.
Linda pressed one hand against her chest and breathed slowly.
She was in her early sixties, dressed in a navy blazer and flat shoes, her silver-blonde hair pinned away from her face.
Nothing about her usually suggested secrecy.
She was the kind of woman who arrived early to charity lunches and brought printed directions despite owning a smartphone.
Now she looked frightened.
“Why is my mother following you?” Ethan asked.
“I don't know that she is.”
“You told Serena not to let her know you're here.”
“Because I don't want this conversation happening with Margaret in the room.”
Headlights passed slowly across the front windows.
The car continued.
Linda exhaled.
“Is she gone?”
“For now.”
I looked at the document case.
“You said you know who prepared the quitclaim deed.”
Linda nodded.
“I prepared part of it.”
Ethan stepped back.
“You what?”
“Not the signature page.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Margaret asked me three months ago what would be required to add you to Serena’s title.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“And you helped her?”
“I thought Serena had agreed.”
I said nothing.
Linda looked at me.
“That is what Margaret told me.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She said the two of you had finally decided to reorganize ownership because Ethan was paying for renovations.”
My eyes moved to Ethan.
He shook his head.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
Linda opened her case.
She removed a yellow legal pad.
Her handwriting covered several pages.
Dates.
Times.
Names.
“She asked for an example quitclaim form,” Linda said. “They're public forms. Anybody can get one.”
“So you gave her one.”
“Yes.”
“Filled out?”
“Partially.”
“With my information?”
Linda swallowed.
“Yes.”
Ethan swore quietly.
“I pulled the property record because Margaret said you had asked her to help.”
I stared at her.
“You've known me for six years.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you call me?”
“I should have.”
“That's not an answer.”
Linda nodded.
“No. It isn't.”
She looked ashamed.
“Margaret has a way of presenting a decision as if everybody else already approved it.”
I almost laughed.
That was perhaps the most accurate description of my mother-in-law anyone had ever offered.
Linda continued.
“She said you were emotional about the house because of your father, so she was handling paperwork to make it easier.”
My fingers went cold.
“She said I was emotional?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
Linda hesitated.
Ethan noticed.
“What else did my mother say?”
“She said Serena's attachment to the house was creating problems in your marriage.”
“That is a lie.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
Linda lowered her eyes.
“I am sorry.”
I sat down.
The foyer suddenly felt too warm.
Which would have been funny if I hadn't spent half the morning discovering Margaret had once again shut off the upstairs air-conditioning.
Linda opened a second folder.
“At first, all I did was show Margaret the process. Then two weeks ago she brought me a completed draft.”
“With my signature?” I asked.
“No.”
“Whose?”
“Nobody's. It was blank.”
“Then how did a signed version reach the title company?”
“I don't know.”
She pulled out a printed email.
“This is why I came.”
The email had been sent three days earlier from Margaret's address.
To Linda.
Subject:
SERENA FINALLY AGREED
I read the message.
Linda,
Good news. Serena has finally stopped being sentimental about Richard’s old restrictions and agreed Ethan should be protected. She signed everything yesterday. We may need a neutral witness because she does not want Martin involved. Please recommend someone discreet.
M.
My stomach turned.
“Richard's old restrictions?”
Ethan repeated.
“What restrictions?”
Linda looked between us.
“I assumed she meant your father's estate plan.”
“There are no restrictions.”
“At least none I know about,” I said.
Ethan looked at me.
“Could there be?”
“No.”
But suddenly I wasn't completely certain.
Dad had handled some financial details privately during his illness.
I had been more concerned with medications, appointments, meals, and whether he could sleep without pain than with estate documents.
Martin had walked me through everything after Dad died.
But there were trust documents.
Letters.
Notes.
Maybe Margaret had heard something.
“How did she get my signature?” I asked.
Linda shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Did you send her anything else?”
“No.”
“Did you notarize anything?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you know the notary on the fraudulent deed?”
Linda's expression changed.
“Yes.”
Ethan leaned forward.
“Who?”
“Karen Doyle.”
“Who is that?”
“Margaret’s neighbor.”
I remembered her.
A quiet woman with dark hair who lived three houses from Margaret.
She had attended Ethan's birthday dinner once.
“Martin said Karen denied notarizing it.”
Linda nodded.
“She called me yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Because Margaret had asked to borrow her notary stamp.”
The room went silent.
Ethan's face drained.
“Borrow?”
“She said she needed to copy the model number because she was ordering Karen a replacement.”
“That's insane.”
“Yes.”
“Did Karen give it to her?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
Linda lifted one hand.
“Karen keeps the stamp in a desk drawer at the neighborhood association office.”
Ethan stared.
“And Mom has access.”
Linda nodded.
Margaret chaired the association's events committee.
Of course she had access.
I closed my eyes.
This had moved far beyond a controlling mother-in-law.
This was documentation.
Property.
Possible forgery.
I felt something strange then.
Not fear.
Grief.
Because beneath everything else was the humiliating truth that I had spent two years arguing about temperatures and shelves while Margaret’s belief that the house belonged to her son had been growing into something much more serious.
Linda seemed to read my face.
“Serena, I don't think this started as fraud.”
I looked at her.
“That doesn't help.”
“I know.”
“When did it start?”
She hesitated.
“Years ago.”
Ethan looked up.
“What?”
Linda sat opposite us.
“The first time Margaret talked to me about this house was before Richard died.”
My breath caught.
“How long before?”
“Maybe four months.”
“Dad was still alive?”
“Yes.”
“What did she ask?”
Linda looked uncomfortable.
“What the house would be worth if sold.”
Ethan stared at her.
“My mother was pricing Serena's father's house while he was dying?”
“I didn't know he was that sick.”
“She knew.”
Linda closed her eyes briefly.
“I told her I couldn't estimate without seeing the property.”
“And?”
“She said that wasn't necessary because eventually it would become yours.”
Ethan went still.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
Linda reached into the document case again.
“I brought something else.”
A photocopy.
Handwritten notes.
Her old notes.
The date was nearly five years earlier.
I recognized the address.
At the top she had written:
MARGARET — FUTURE SALE / ETHAN PROPERTY?
My vision blurred for a second.
Dad had been alive.
Margaret had already imagined the house passing through me to Ethan.
Maybe that explained everything.
The kitchen.
The thermostat.
The photographs.
She wasn't merely behaving like an overbearing visitor.
In her mind, she had been practicing ownership.
Ethan read the page twice.
Then stood.
“I need air.”
He went toward the kitchen.
Linda looked at me.
“There's one more thing.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The upstairs thermostat.”
I frowned.
“What about it?”
“You mentioned Margaret controlling it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever wonder why she cared so much?”
“Because she likes control.”
Linda shook her head.
“Maybe partly.”
She removed her phone.
“Margaret asked me a strange question last month.”
“What question?”
“She asked whether a house with uneven climate control could be used to justify a major HVAC replacement before a sale.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She said your upstairs system was unreliable.”
“It isn't.”
“I know.”
“She keeps turning it off.”
Linda nodded slowly.
“I think she was creating a record of problems.”
Ethan had returned.
He heard the last sentence.
“A record for what?”
Linda looked at him.
“Renovations.”
“Why?”
“To increase the amount you could claim you had invested in the property.”
My blood went cold.
Ethan stared.
“Claim where?”
Linda didn't answer immediately.
Then she said:
“In a divorce.”
The word seemed to erase every sound in the room.
Ethan stepped forward.
“My mother thought Serena and I were divorcing?”
Linda’s face tightened.
“No.”
She slid one final page across the table.
“She was trying to make sure you were prepared if you did.”
At the bottom of the page was a handwritten list of supposed marital improvements.
Kitchen: $48,000.
HVAC: $31,500.
Landscape: $22,000.
Guest suite: $19,800.
Total:
$121,300.
Beside the figure, Margaret had written three words.
ETHAN'S EQUITY CLAIM.
Ethan reached for the paper.
Then stopped.
A notification sounded from my security panel.
Upstairs motion detected.
All three of us froze.
Ethan looked toward the staircase.
“Nobody else is here.”
Another alert appeared.
PRIMARY BEDROOM WINDOW OPEN.
Then footsteps sounded above us.
Slow.
May you like
Deliberate.
Someone was already inside the house.
