Chapter 2 - The Company With My Name
I stared at the man on Carter’s doorstep.
“Myself?”
He nodded.
“My name is Adrian Wolfe. I’m a forensic accountant.”
Nothing about the evening made sense anymore.
“Who hired you?”
“Your late husband.”
I nearly shut the door.
Thomas had been dead five years.
Adrian seemed prepared for my reaction.
“He retained my firm before his death. There were instructions regarding certain assets that were only to be reviewed if specific financial activity occurred.”
“What activity?”
“A transfer involving you and Carter.”
I let him inside.
He placed the briefcase on the dining table beside the New Year’s cards.
Then he noticed the blue folder.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get those?”
“In Karla’s drawer.”
He read the care-facility application.
Then Carter’s note.
“They’re planning to admit you tomorrow?”
“At nine.”
Adrian immediately photographed each page.
“Do not confront them tonight.”
“I’m leaving tonight.”
“Good.”
He opened his briefcase.
Inside were copies of corporate filings.
Horizon Crest Holdings.
The company I had seen on Carter’s computer.
Adrian pointed at an older document.
“Horizon Crest originally had two beneficial owners.”
“Carter and Karla?”
“No.”
He turned the page.
Thomas Hayes.
Marissa Hayes.
I read my name twice.
“I’ve never owned a company.”
“Technically, you did.”
Years earlier, Thomas had invested in rental properties with a business partner.
I remembered vague conversations about retirement planning.
Thomas handled most of it.
“He established Horizon Crest as part of your estate planning,” Adrian explained. “The company became dormant after one property was sold.”
“Then how did Karla become managing member?”
“That is what we need to determine.”
He showed me a filing from five years earlier.
My name had been removed.
Karla’s had been added.
A signature appeared beneath the amendment.
Marissa Hayes.
It looked like mine.
It was not.
My stomach turned.
“Forgery.”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely.”
Adrian nodded.
“Then this is much more serious.”
He explained the $200,000.
Carter had persuaded me to wire it to an account he described as temporary.
But that account belonged to Horizon Crest.
A company that legally had ties to me.
“Why would he do that?”
“To make the transfer appear internally authorized.”
“Then they bought the Phoenix property?”
“Yes.”
“With my money.”
“Mostly.”
Adrian slid another document toward me.
“The Phoenix property has appreciated dramatically.”
“How much?”
“Current estimated value is just under nine hundred thousand.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
One ugly, shocked sound.
I had spent five years clipping coupons while Karla criticized how much coffee I drank.
They had used my money to buy an investment worth nearly a million dollars.
“Why are they there tonight?”
“They’ve arranged to refinance it.”
“How much?”
“Approximately six hundred thousand dollars.”
That explained the folder.
The appointment.
The rush.
They needed the deal completed before I was institutionalized.
Once I was declared incapable, Carter could claim authority over me.
Then the Albuquerque apartment.
Then everything else.
My phone rang.
Carter.
I let it ring.
Again.
Then Karla.
Then a text.
CARD DECLINED.
Another.
Mom, did you accidentally freeze the account?
I almost smiled.
Adrian looked at the screen.
“They know something changed.”
Another message came.
CALL ME NOW.
I turned the phone facedown.
“What should I do?”
“First, get somewhere safe.”
“My apartment in Albuquerque.”
“Can you reach the station?”
“I already intended to.”
Adrian glanced at my suitcase.
“You planned to leave before discovering this?”
“For several days.”
That surprised him.
I told him about the small humiliations.
The bills.
The chores.
The New Year’s cards.
Tonight’s dinner.
His expression softened.
“People sometimes mistake patience for helplessness.”
I zipped my suitcase.
“Carter has made that mistake for five years.”
The train would leave shortly before ten.
Adrian drove me to the station.
On the way, my phone kept vibrating.
Carter.
Karla.
Carter again.
Finally, I answered.
“Mom?”
His voice was breathless.
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“We came home and you’re gone.”
“You told me to stay home.”
“That doesn’t mean disappear.”
I looked through the car window.
“You seemed comfortable excluding me.”
“Mom, stop being dramatic.”
There it was.
The phrase Karla used whenever I objected to anything.
“What happened to the credit card?”
“I suspended it.”
Silence.
“You what?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s our household card.”
“I pay it.”
“You can’t just shut it off because you’re upset about dinner.”
“I can shut off an account that belongs to me whenever I like.”
His tone changed.
Harder.
“Where are you?”
“I’m taking a trip.”
“What trip?”
“Good night, Carter.”
“Mom.”
I ended the call.
Thirty seconds later, Karla called.
I declined it.
Then Monica’s name appeared.
That stopped me.
I answered.
“Grandma?”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart.”
“Dad’s really mad.”
“I know.”
There was movement behind her.
Then she whispered, “Don’t tell him I called.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“He and Mom were talking in the garage.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause.
Then:
“They said you found something.”
Before I could respond, a voice sounded behind her.
“Monica?”
The call ended.
At the station, Adrian walked me to the platform.
“You have copies of everything?”
“Yes.”
“Keep the originals with you.”
The train arrived.
I climbed aboard carrying everything I still trusted.
As San Diego disappeared behind me, I thought about Thomas.
Had he suspected Carter?
Had that been why he hired Adrian?
I opened Thomas’s photograph.
The two of us standing in Tucson.
His arm around me.
My head against his shoulder.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to say aloud what I had been too ashamed to admit.
“I should have left sooner.”
My phone buzzed.
A bank notification.
LOGIN ATTEMPT BLOCKED.
Someone had tried to access my savings account.
Then another alert.
PASSWORD RESET REQUEST.
Then another.
Carter was not merely angry.
He was trying to get into my money.
I called the bank.
I changed every password.
Added verbal verification.
Removed all authorized users.
Then I froze the remaining household-linked accounts.
At midnight, I received a voicemail.
Carter.
His tone was different now.
Sweet.
“Mom, we’re worried. Please call me. You’re confused and you shouldn’t be traveling alone.”
Confused.
The word was deliberate.
He was creating a record.
I saved the voicemail.
An hour later, another message arrived.
From Karla.
We’ve contacted authorities because you left in an agitated state.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Adrian had warned me.
They were already building the dementia narrative.
The conductor passed through the car.
I asked where we were.
He told me.
I watched darkness slide beyond the window.
Then my phone rang from an unknown number.
I answered.
“Mrs. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Ruiz with San Diego Police.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your family reported you missing.”
“I’m not missing.”
“They expressed concern that you may be cognitively impaired.”
“I’m traveling voluntarily.”
“Can you tell me where you are?”
“Yes.”
I did.
The officer asked several basic questions.
My birth date.
My destination.
Why I left.
I answered every one.
Then I told him about the forged medical paperwork.
There was a silence.
“Do you have evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it.”
His tone changed immediately.
“Mrs. Hayes, based on what you’ve told me, I’m documenting that we made direct contact and that you appeared coherent and stated you left voluntarily.”
Relief moved through me.
“Thank you.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Your son claimed he has power of attorney.”
I sat upright.
“He does not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Another pause.
“Then you may want an attorney.”
After we hung up, I searched my suitcase again.
The deed.
Bank records.
Identification.
No power of attorney.
Then I remembered something.
Three months earlier, Karla had brought me papers at breakfast.
“Insurance updates.”
She had placed little stickers beside the signature lines.
I had signed several pages without reading every paragraph.
My hands began shaking.
At sunrise, the train stopped.
I stepped onto the platform to stretch my legs.
My phone connected to the station Wi-Fi.
Seventeen messages appeared.
One came from Adrian.
URGENT. CALL ME BEFORE YOU ARRIVE IN ALBUQUERQUE.
I called immediately.
He answered on the first ring.
“I found the power of attorney.”
My mouth went dry.
“Did I sign it?”
“There is a signature.”
“But?”
“It gives Carter authority over your property if two physicians declare you incapacitated.”
My thoughts went to the geriatric assessment.
The fake symptoms.
The care facility.
“They already have one doctor.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We’re working on that.”
I leaned against a pillar.
“Adrian, can Carter sell my apartment?”
“Not yet.”
“Yet?”
“If they obtain a second medical declaration, possibly.”
I looked toward the train.
“How long?”
“That depends on what they’ve arranged.”
His silence frightened me more than his answer.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“We contacted the care facility.”
“And?”
“They weren’t expecting you tomorrow.”
I frowned.
“But the calendar said—”
“They were expecting you today.”
My pulse jumped.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“The appointment was changed overnight.”
“By Carter?”
“No.”
Adrian inhaled.
“By a physician.”
“What physician?”
“I’m sending you the name.”
My phone buzzed.
I opened the message.
DR. ALAN MERCER.
I knew that name.
He had been Thomas’s doctor.
May you like
The man who signed my husband’s death certificate.
And according to the document Adrian had just found, Dr. Mercer had signed the first declaration stating that I was mentally incompetent.
