Chapter 3 - The House Margaret Already Considered Hers
“What do you mean, sell it?”
Sarah spoke carefully.
“There's a draft purchase agreement.”
“For my house?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“A holding company.”
“What holding company?”
“Blue Ash Residential Holdings.”
“I've never heard of it.”
“We're tracing ownership.”
I looked toward the hospital window.
The house sat twelve miles away.
White brick.
Three bedrooms upstairs.
A small office beside the kitchen.
A magnolia tree my father planted the week I closed.
Mark had moved into that house after our wedding.
Margaret had spent six years changing it in her imagination.
“This dining room needs proper wallpaper.”
“You should convert Thomas's office.”
“The guest suite would be perfect for us if Richard and I ever needed to stay.”
At Christmas she once told relatives, “Mark and Emily's place will eventually become the family house.”
I thought she meant emotionally.
Maybe she meant literally.
“Could they actually sell it?” I asked.
“Not legally.”
“That's not the same answer.”
“No.”
Sarah sighed.
“The draft uses a quitclaim deed that appears to transfer title from you to a marital trust.”
“I never created a marital trust.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
My stomach turned.
Three weeks.
Around the same time Margaret began pressuring me for the $300,000.
“Whose signature?”
“Yours.”
“Forged?”
“Yes.”
“Mark?”
“Witness.”
That hurt more than I expected.
My husband had signed his name beneath a document containing my forged signature.
Whatever explanation I had unconsciously preserved for him died there.
He had not merely failed to protect me yesterday.
He had been participating before yesterday.
“Send it.”
“Emily—”
“Send it.”
The document appeared thirty seconds later.
I zoomed in.
Witness: Mark Carter.
His handwriting.
No question.
I had watched him sign birthday cards, mortgage documents, restaurant receipts.
The long stroke through the T in Carter was unmistakable.
“Can he explain that away?”
“He can try.”
“Can we stop the sale?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop it.”
“We already filed notice disputing the transfer. Title counsel has been contacted.”
“Good.”
“I'd also like authorization for a forensic review.”
“Of everything.”
“That could become expensive.”
“Do it.”
“Okay.”
I ended the call and lay still.
I expected grief.
Instead, memories began reorganizing themselves.
Last month Mark had asked where I kept the original deed.
He said our insurance agent needed it.
Two weeks ago Richard asked whether the property had ever been refinanced.
Margaret complained that the upstairs bathrooms were outdated.
Three days ago Mark suggested I stay at a hotel during “renovations” scheduled for the following month.
There were no renovations.
They had been preparing my removal.
My phone rang again.
Unknown number.
I ignored it.
Voicemail appeared.
I listened.
A man's voice.
“Mrs. Carter, this is Kevin Doyle with Queensbridge Title Services. I was asked to contact you regarding the Blue Ash closing scheduled for Friday. We received notice from your counsel disputing authorization. Please call immediately.”
Friday.
Two days away.
Yesterday Margaret attacked me.
Today Mark demanded signatures.
Friday they planned to close on my house.
Coincidence required too much imagination.
Jenna entered with dinner.
“You look like you're trying to solve a murder.”
“Just my marriage.”
She paused.
“Soup?”
“Please.”
She placed the tray.
“Your husband tried to come upstairs.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
My body tightened.
“He's downstairs?”
“Security turned him away.”
“What did he do?”
“Argued.”
“Of course.”
“He left.”
I nodded.
Then Jenna added, “His mother didn't.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She is in the lobby.”
“Why?”
“Apparently she says she won't leave until you speak to her.”
“How long?”
“Almost an hour.”
I leaned back.
“Let her sit.”
Jenna's mouth almost smiled.
“I didn't hear that.”
“Thank you.”
After dinner, I received a call from my cousin Rachel.
We had not spoken in three months.
“Emily?”
“Hi.”
“Are you in the hospital?”
My chest tightened.
“How do you know?”
“Mark called my mother.”
Of course he did.
“What did he say?”
Rachel hesitated.
“That you had some kind of emotional episode.”
I stared at the wall.
“An emotional episode.”
“He said you fell.”
I laughed once.
Rachel went silent.
Then, “That's not what happened.”
“No.”
“Did Margaret—”
“Yes.”
Rachel inhaled.
“Oh my God.”
“Mark watched.”
Another silence.
“Emily.”
“I'm okay.”
“No, you're not.”
“I will be.”
“What do you need?”
That question almost broke me.
Not what happened?
Not are you sure?
What do you need?
“My laptop.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“I'll get it.”
“Don't go alone.”
“Why?”
“Mark may be there.”
Rachel became quiet.
“Okay.”
“And don't tell him you're going.”
“Okay.”
I gave her instructions.
My laptop was inside my father's old desk.
The office had a keypad lock.
I gave Rachel the code.
“Anything else?”
I thought.
“Yes. There is a blue document box on the top shelf.”
“What is it?”
“My original property papers.”
“I'll bring it.”
We ended the call.
Twenty minutes later, Rachel called again.
Her voice had changed.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“I'm at your house.”
My heart kicked.
“Is Mark there?”
“No.”
“Margaret?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“The front door is open.”
“Don't go inside.”
“I already did.”
“Rachel.”
“Listen to me.”
I heard movement.
Footsteps.
“The office door is damaged.”
I sat upright.
“What?”
“Someone forced it.”
My lungs tightened.
“The document box?”
“Gone.”
Of course.
“What about the laptop?”
“Still here.”
“Take it.”
“Emily, there's more.”
“What?”
“Your closet.”
I waited.
“Half your clothes are in boxes.”
For several seconds I could not speak.
“They packed me?”
“Yes.”
My marriage was erasing me while I lay in a hospital bed.
“Take pictures.”
“I am.”
“Every room.”
“Okay.”
Then Rachel whispered, “Wait.”
“What?”
“I hear someone.”
“Leave.”
“I'm going.”
“Now.”
A door slammed faintly through the phone.
Rachel stopped breathing.
“Who is it?”
She whispered one name.
May you like
“Margaret.”
The call went dead.
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