Chapter 3 - The Company That Did Not Exist
Elliot stared at the notarized deed as if the paper had changed shape in his hands.
“My wife did not notarize this.”
Rebecca looked at him sharply.
“You’re certain?”
“She hasn’t been a notary for three years.”
Nobody moved.
Elliot enlarged the stamp.
The commission number appeared legitimate.
The expiration date did not.
“It expired in 2023.”
Rebecca immediately photographed the screen.
“That may explain how it got accepted electronically, but not who submitted it.”
Elliot turned toward Blake.
“You told me Claire would sign the transfer today.”
Blake’s mouth tightened.
“I said we were working on it.”
“This deed was submitted yesterday.”
“I didn’t submit it.”
“Your company is the grantee.”
“I know what it says.”
Patricia sat very still.
Too still.
I looked at her.
“You knew about the deed.”
“No.”
“You recognized the notary’s name.”
“Everyone recognized the name after he said it was his wife.”
“You reacted before he explained that.”
She looked at Blake.
He avoided her eyes.
That was all I needed.
Rebecca noticed too.
“Patricia, how did you get access to an old notary stamp belonging to Elaine Mercer?”
“I didn’t.”
Elliot’s face hardened.
“Have you ever met my wife?”
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I said no.”
Elliot opened another file on his phone.
“My wife used to work part-time at a title office in Port Angeles.”
Patricia blinked.
“One that handled land transfers around Sequim.”
No response.
“The same area where your parcel is located.”
Patricia stood.
“This is outrageous.”
I looked at her.
“Sit down.”
She stared at me.
I had spent nearly a decade accommodating that woman.
Driving her to appointments.
Hosting holidays.
Listening while she explained why Blake’s failures were someone else’s fault.
For the first time, she heard something in my voice that she had never heard before.
She sat.
Rebecca called the county recorder’s office.
While she waited on hold, I walked to the window.
The same Pacific view I had watched on my first morning in the house stretched beyond the glass.
Nothing outside had changed.
That felt almost offensive.
Three days earlier, the ocean represented freedom.
Now I was standing inside a home somebody had apparently attempted to transfer out of my name.
Blake came beside me.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
“I swear this went further than I intended.”
I turned.
That was not a denial.
“How far did you intend it to go?”
He closed his eyes.
“Listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“I needed proof of an asset.”
“You didn’t have an asset.”
“We’re married.”
“Stop saying that as though marriage is a property-transfer form.”
“I thought once you understood the opportunity, you would agree.”
“To give your company my house?”
“Temporarily.”
“Ownership isn’t temporary.”
“It could have been transferred back.”
“After you borrowed against it?”
He lowered his voice.
“I needed leverage.”
“For what?”
“The brokerage is struggling.”
Finally.
A truth.
“How badly?”
He looked toward Elliot.
“Not here.”
“Here.”
“Claire.”
“How badly?”
He swallowed.
“About ninety thousand.”
My stomach dropped.
“Ninety thousand dollars?”
“In obligations.”
“What does that mean?”
“Office lease. Marketing contracts. Vehicle leases. Advances.”
“You told me business was good.”
“It was.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“And this year?”
He looked down.
I thought about his expensive suits.
His leased SUV.
The private club where he insisted clients expected to see him.
The dinners.
The watches.
The photos he posted from conferences.
“Were you making money?”
“Some months.”
“How much did you lose?”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“It is exactly that simple.”
He gave me the number.
“One hundred eighty-three thousand.”
I stared at him.
My salary had paid most of our household expenses while he had been quietly burning through nearly two hundred thousand dollars.
“Where did the money come from?”
“Credit.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“All of it?”
He did not answer.
“Blake.”
“Some business cards.”
“All of it?”
“No.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“What else?”
He rubbed his face.
“A private loan.”
“From whom?”
He looked at Patricia.
She looked away.
“Mom.”
I almost laughed.
“You borrowed from your mother?”
“Forty thousand.”
Patricia interrupted.
“Which he will repay.”
“With money borrowed against my house?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“What was the plan?”
Blake stepped closer.
“To close two deals, refinance the company, repay Mom, stabilize the brokerage, and put everything behind us.”
“By buying her land for more than twice its appraised value.”
“That parcel will appreciate.”
Rebecca ended her phone call.
Her face told me the situation had worsened.
“The recorder’s office confirmed the deed was accepted yesterday afternoon.”
My knees weakened.
I gripped the back of a chair.
“Am I still the owner?”
“They’ve flagged the record. Because we reported suspected fraud quickly, we can move for emergency correction and injunctive relief. But on paper, Carrington Coastal Holdings is currently showing as grantee.”
Blake started speaking.
“Claire, I can fix—”
“Don’t.”
Rebecca continued.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The electronic submission originated from a registered title-processing account.”
Elliot frowned.
“Which company?”
“Peninsula Closing Services.”
He went still.
“I know them.”
Blake swore under his breath.
I looked at him.
“You know them too.”
He did not answer.
Rebecca did.
“Blake?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“One of my former clients works there.”
“Name?”
“Trevor Lane.”
Rebecca wrote it down.
“Did he submit the deed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“No.”
Patricia said, “This questioning is ridiculous.”
Rebecca ignored her.
“Did you provide Trevor Lane with Claire’s identification?”
Blake looked up.
“No.”
“Signature samples?”
“No.”
“Property information?”
“That’s public.”
“Access to this house?”
“No.”
I suddenly remembered something.
My home office.
The box from closing.
Copies of my driver’s license.
Wire confirmations.
Inheritance documentation.
Everything had been stored temporarily in a locked filing cabinet.
I walked toward the hallway.
Rebecca followed.
“Where are you going?”
“My office.”
Blake moved after me.
“Claire.”
I reached the door.
It was closed.
I opened it.
The filing cabinet sat beneath the window.
The top drawer was slightly open.
I had locked it that morning.
I knew I had.
I walked over.
The lock was scratched.
Not heavily.
Just enough.
I pulled the drawer.
My folders were still there.
At first glance.
Then I saw the empty space.
The closing folder was gone.
I turned.
Blake stood in the doorway.
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“The closing file.”
“I don’t know.”
“Who opened this cabinet?”
“No idea.”
Patricia appeared behind him.
“Maybe you forgot to lock it.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t.”
Rebecca crouched beside the cabinet.
“There are tool marks.”
Blake laughed nervously.
“Come on.”
She looked up.
“Do you have a screwdriver set?”
“This is a house. Of course there are tools.”
“Where?”
“Garage.”
I remembered seeing Blake unload his toolbox earlier.
Along with Patricia’s luggage.
My phone buzzed.
A security alert.
FRONT DOOR ACCESS HISTORY AVAILABLE.
The house had smart locks.
I had installed the app only two days earlier and had barely explored it.
I opened the access log.
My code.
Blake’s code.
Temporary contractor codes.
Then another entry.
ADMIN OVERRIDE KEY USED — 11:46 A.M. YESTERDAY.
I looked at Blake.
“Did you use a physical key yesterday?”
“No.”
“Did Patricia?”
“No.”
Patricia became very interested in the window.
“Patricia?”
She sighed.
“Blake gave me a spare.”
Blake whipped around.
“Mom.”
“What? You did.”
I stared at him.
“You made her a key?”
“It was for emergencies.”
“Before she moved here.”
Silence.
“How long has she had it?”
Patricia answered.
“A few weeks.”
I felt almost dizzy.
I had not even owned the house a few weeks.
“You had a key before closing?”
Blake said, “It was copied from the temporary access key.”
“How did you get that?”
“The agent.”
“No. The agent gave one to me.”
He looked away.
I understood.
He had taken mine.
Copied it.
Returned it before I noticed.
Rebecca held out her hand.
“Patricia, give Claire the key.”
Patricia did not move.
“Now.”
She reached into her handbag.
For one second, I expected a key.
Instead, her hand stopped.
Her eyes changed.
Rebecca saw it.
“What else is in the bag?”
“Nothing.”
“Then hand it over.”
“You have no right.”
“I’m not law enforcement. You can refuse.”
Patricia clutched the bag tighter.
That told us enough.
Elliot stepped into the office.
“I called Elaine.”
Everyone looked at him.
“My wife remembers Patricia.”
Patricia went pale.
Elliot continued.
“Three years ago, Patricia came into the title office about the Sequim parcel. Elaine handled a preliminary ownership search.”
“That means nothing.”
“She also remembers Trevor Lane.”
Blake closed his eyes.
Rebecca looked at him.
“Of course she does.”
I turned toward Elliot.
“What connection?”
“Trevor worked at the same title office before joining Peninsula Closing Services.”
The pieces were beginning to form.
Not enough to see the whole picture.
Enough to know Blake’s story about an innocent preliminary loan application was collapsing.
Rebecca’s phone rang.
She stepped into the hallway.
I watched Blake.
He looked tired now.
Not guilty.
Cornered.
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
“I have.”
“No. You’ve told me whatever you thought I had already discovered.”
He looked at the floor.
“Was Trevor helping you move my house into the LLC?”
Silence.
“Blake.”
“Yes.”
The word barely came out.
Patricia hissed his name.
He turned toward her.
“It’s already over, Mom.”
She looked furious.
Not frightened.
Furious that he had admitted it.
Rebecca returned.
“We need to leave.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“I just spoke to someone at the county prosecutor’s fraud unit.”
Blake’s face changed.
“You called prosecutors?”
“I called about a forged deed.”
“This is a family dispute.”
“No,” Rebecca said. “It stopped being a family dispute when somebody filed a false instrument.”
She turned toward me.
“They want you to preserve everything and not confront Trevor directly.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“There’s another reason.”
She held up her phone.
“The recorder’s office found three other filings connected to Carrington Coastal Holdings.”
Blake stared at her.
“What filings?”
Rebecca looked at him.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
That frightened me more than if he had.
She opened the record.
“Three quitclaim deeds. Three different properties. Three different owners.”
Elliot leaned closer.
“Are they related to the loan?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I read the names.
Two meant nothing.
The third did.
I had seen it on birthday cards.
Christmas envelopes.
My grandmother’s funeral guestbook.
MARY DAWSON.
My aunt.
My mother’s younger sister.
The woman who had challenged my grandmother’s estate and disappeared from my life after losing.
Her property had been transferred to Carrington Coastal Holdings six weeks earlier.
I looked at Blake.
He looked genuinely shocked.
Then his phone began ringing.
The caller ID showed one name.
TREVOR LANE.
Blake stared at the screen.
Rebecca whispered:
“Put it on speaker.”
He answered.
Trevor did not say hello.
He said:
May you like
“You idiot. Claire was never supposed to see the first deed.”
Then the line went dead.
