Chapter 3 - The Notary Who Wasn’t There
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The woman standing in Suite 214 saw my face and immediately stepped backward.
“No,” she said. “Wait. I didn’t mean—”
Rebecca moved slightly in front of me.
Not blocking me.
Grounding the room.
“What exactly did Mark tell you?” she asked.
The woman looked between us.
“Who are you?”
“Rebecca Sloan. Attorney.”
That made things worse.
“I don’t want legal trouble.”
“Neither does Elena.”
I found my voice.
“What’s your name?”
“Caroline.”
“Caroline what?”
“Caroline Voss.”
I looked at her left hand.
No ring.
I hated myself for checking.
“What did Mark tell you I knew?”
She swallowed.
“That we were starting the company together.”
My stomach unclenched by one degree.
“The company.”
“Yes.”
Not an affair.
At least not yet.
Rebecca caught the same distinction.
“You said ‘knew about us.’”
“I meant the business. Mark and me. Diane too.”
I almost laughed from sheer relief, which felt ridiculous under the circumstances.
“You’re a partner?”
Caroline nodded.
“Minority partner.”
“In Hawthorne Family Holdings?”
“Yes.”
“What does the company do?”
Her expression became guarded again.
“Real estate redevelopment.”
Mark sold commercial HVAC systems.
He had never redeveloped so much as a bathroom without asking me which screwdriver to use.
“When did this start?”
“January.”
Seven months ago.
Long before the LLC filing.
“Why is my house involved?”
Caroline stared at me.
“What?”
“My house.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hawthorne Family Holdings has paperwork transferring my home into the company.”
“No.”
“Caroline.”
“No. That can’t be right.”
She walked toward the desk.
Rebecca and I followed.
Caroline opened a file drawer and pulled out a binder.
“Mark said the collateral was Diane’s property.”
“What collateral?”
“For the construction line.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What construction?”
She turned the binder around.
A rendering filled the first page.
A row of modern townhomes.
Project name:
Hawthorne Commons.
Estimated acquisition and construction cost: $2.1 million.
I stared.
“You’re building this?”
“We were supposed to.”
“Where?”
She pointed to an address.
I knew it.
Not personally.
But I had driven past the parcel many times.
An abandoned garden center near Matthews.
“Mark said he had investors.”
Caroline’s voice had changed.
Less defensive.
More frightened.
“He said Diane owned a house free and clear worth around seven hundred thousand dollars, and she planned to contribute it as collateral.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She said nothing.
“Diane owns a condo,” I told Caroline. “Maybe three hundred thousand. With a mortgage.”
Caroline sat down.
“That’s not what he said.”
“Did he give you an address?”
She opened another section of the binder.
There it was.
My address.
Not Diane’s.
The room seemed to shrink.
“How much have you invested?” Rebecca asked.
Caroline rubbed one hand across her stomach.
“One hundred eighty thousand.”
I stared at her.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My father died last year. I inherited money.”
The similarity felt obscene.
Two women.
Two inheritances.
One man selling access to property that was never his.
“How did you meet Mark?”
“Through work. My firm supplied project estimates.”
“Were you romantically involved?”
Her head jerked up.
“No.”
I believed her.
Not because I wanted to.
Because offense arrived before fear.
She opened her phone.
“You can look at everything. Messages. Emails. Whatever.”
Rebecca lifted a hand.
“Don’t delete anything.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t send us anything yet either. Preserve it.”
Caroline looked at me.
“I swear he told me you supported the project.”
“Did he?”
“He said you were cautious because of your compliance job, so you didn’t want your name attached publicly.”
Of course.
He used my profession to explain my absence.
“What was Diane’s role?”
“She handles investor relationships.”
I nearly laughed again.
“Investor relationships.”
“She brought in two people from church.”
The brisket flashed through my mind.
Church group.
Mark’s cousins.
Diane had taken dinner for them.
Maybe generosity was marketing.
“Who sent me the messages?” I asked.
Caroline froze.
“What messages?”
I showed her.
She read them.
Her face changed.
“I didn’t send these.”
“Who would?”
She looked toward the hallway.
“One person.”
“Who?”
“Patricia.”
The notary.
“Why?”
“Because she quit yesterday.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Quit Fairmont?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Caroline lowered her voice even though we were alone.
“She came here furious. She said she wanted her name removed from every file. Mark told her she was overreacting.”
That phrase again.
“What file?”
“The loan.”
“My loan?”
Caroline looked sick.
“I didn’t know.”
I called Patricia from the number listed in the public notary database.
Voicemail.
Rebecca texted once:
This is attorney Rebecca Sloan. We need to discuss a document bearing your notary seal and Elena Hawthorne’s signature. Please preserve all related records.
She called back in forty-three seconds.
“I didn’t notarize her signature.”
No greeting.
No hesitation.
Rebecca put the phone on speaker.
“Patricia, where are you?”
“At home.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Did someone use your notary seal?”
Silence.
“Patricia?”
“I think so.”
“Who had access?”
Another silence.
Then:
“Mark.”
My skin went cold.
“How?”
“He came into Fairmont on May seventeenth with documents for the development project. I knew him through Caroline.”
“What happened?”
“He needed certified copies. I notarized two affidavits he signed himself.”
“Not Elena’s.”
“No.”
“Did he have access to your seal?”
“I left the room for maybe five minutes.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Did you notice anything?”
“No.”
“When did you first see the deed?”
“Yesterday.”
“How?”
“The loan package came through internal review.”
“And?”
“The acknowledgment had my seal.”
I gripped the table edge.
“Why didn’t you report it immediately?”
“I confronted Mark first.”
Of course she did.
“What did he say?”
Patricia’s voice shook.
“He said Elena had signed at home and that Diane witnessed it.”
“A notary cannot certify a signature based on that.”
“I know.”
“And your journal?”
Another pause.
Every competent notary keeps records.
“I checked.”
“And?”
“There’s an entry.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed.
“For Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Did you write it?”
“No.”
That was worse.
Someone had not merely copied a seal.
They had altered her official record.
“Who can access the journal?”
“It was kept in my desk.”
“Unlocked?”
“Usually.”
Rebecca closed her eyes briefly.
“Patricia, do not alter or destroy anything. Photograph the journal. Preserve electronic access logs if your company has them. And stop communicating with Mark or Diane.”
“I already did.”
“Why did you text Elena?”
“I didn’t.”
I looked at Rebecca.
Patricia sounded genuinely confused.
“You didn’t send anonymous messages?”
“No.”
“Did you send a photograph of Mark entering Fairmont?”
“No.”
“Who took it?”
“I don’t know.”
The photograph was from outside.
Maybe security footage.
Maybe an employee.
Someone else was watching.
“Patricia,” I said, “what was Mark trying to finance?”
“The Hawthorne Commons development.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred twenty-five thousand for the initial line. Larger construction financing later.”
“Would the lender have funded it?”
“Not without title verification.”
“So why forge the deed?”
“To show the LLC controlled the collateral long enough to satisfy preliminary underwriting.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“They were trying to push a false chain of title into the file.”
“Yes.”
“Has anything been funded?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Think?”
“I resigned yesterday.”
“Why?”
Patricia’s answer was quiet.
“Because when I told Mark I would report the false notarization, he said I should remember how much money Caroline had already invested.”
It sounded like guilt manipulation rather than a threat.
Mark was good at that.
He did not need to intimidate people.
He made them responsible for the consequences of exposing him.
Exactly what he had done to me for years.
At noon, Rebecca and I went to the county register.
We filed an alert related to fraudulent recording attempts and obtained certified copies of Aunt Ruth’s estate transfer.
My ownership was clean.
Sole ownership.
No liens.
No mortgages.
For now.
Then I placed the original estate documents in a bank safe deposit box.
By two, Cynthia called.
“I heard you took a personal day.”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca Sloan also called legal.”
I frowned.
“You called my employer?”
Rebecca looked unapologetic.
“You’ve investigated people Mark might know professionally. You need conflict screening.”
Cynthia lowered her voice.
“Elena, has your husband ever had contact with anyone in our mortgage servicing division?”
“I don’t know.”
“Check.”
I searched my memory.
Company parties.
Client dinners.
Mark knew dozens of people through me.
Suddenly every introduction felt dangerous.
“I’ll send you names.”
“Do that.”
At three thirty, Caroline forwarded us a preserved export of relevant business communications after Rebecca gave formal instructions.
There were hundreds.
I read them in a conference room.
Mark discussing capital.
Diane discussing investors.
Caroline discussing permits.
Nothing openly criminal.
Then I found a message from Mark to Diane dated six weeks earlier.
E won’t agree to leverage the house. Stop asking. We need another path.
Diane:
She’ll agree if she understands family depends on it.
Mark:
No. She gets suspicious when pressured.
Diane:
Then don’t pressure her. Handle the paperwork.
I stared at the words.
Handle the paperwork.
Rebecca read over my shoulder.
“That is ugly.”
“It’s not explicit.”
“No.”
“But it’s ugly.”
We kept reading.
Three weeks later:
Mark:
P is asking why Elena isn’t attending closing prep.
Diane:
Tell her Elena travels for work.
Mark:
She doesn’t.
Diane:
Then tell her whatever you need to tell her. You’re overthinking this.
I felt physically ill.
At five, I drove home.
Not because Rebecca liked the idea.
Because leaving would alert Mark immediately.
I needed time.
Diane’s SUV was gone.
Mark was cooking pasta.
“Hey,” he said.
Normal.
I put my bag down.
“Hey.”
“Mom left.”
“Okay.”
“She said you were weird this morning.”
“Did she?”
He stirred sauce.
“I think we should reset.”
“Reset what?”
“Us.”
Interesting timing.
He came around the island.
“I hate fighting with you.”
“Then why do you?”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Not about the deed.
Dinner.
He was apologizing for dinner because he thought dinner was still the problem.
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“No.”
“And Mom shouldn’t have taken that much.”
“That much?”
His mouth twitched.
“Okay. She shouldn’t have taken it without asking.”
The smallest possible admission.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
He looked relieved.
Then he hugged me.
I let him.
That may have been the hardest thing I did all day.
Over his shoulder, I noticed his laptop open on the counter.
A notification appeared.
Fairmont Title Services — Urgent File Hold
Mark broke the hug immediately.
Too quickly.
He turned toward the screen.
I pretended not to notice.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Work.”
“Fairmont?”
He closed the laptop.
“Client thing.”
“Your HVAC company uses a title company?”
His eyes met mine.
There.
The first real fear.
“Sometimes commercial projects involve property records.”
“Of course.”
He studied me.
I smiled.
Then the doorbell rang.
Mark flinched.
I walked to the door.
A delivery driver stood outside holding an envelope.
Certified mail.
For me.
I signed.
Mark watched from the kitchen.
“Who’s it from?”
I looked at the return address.
No sender.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
A photocopy of a bank statement.
At the top was Mark’s name.
At the bottom was an account balance I had never seen.
$287,614.92.
May you like
Attached to it was a handwritten note.
Ask him where the investors’ money went.
