Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE THAT SHOULDN'T EXISTMy daughter Claire saw my face before I could lie about it.
She was thirty-six, a CPA with a habit of detecting nonsense faster than I could produce it.
We met at an urgent care clinic off Mopac because I refused to go to the emergency room unless I was actually dying.
The physician examined my eye, photographed the bruising for my medical record, cleaned my lip, and asked three separate times whether I felt safe returning home.
I said no the third time.
Claire was waiting in the parking lot.
She took one look at me and stopped beside her Subaru.
“Who?”
I said nothing.
“Dad.”
“Brandon.”
Her face changed.
Not shock.
Something closer to confirmation.
That disturbed me.
“You expected this?”
“No.”
“You didn't look surprised.”
She folded her arms.
“I've been telling you for two years that something was wrong.”
“You told me he was irresponsible.”
“I told you he was living like the house already belonged to him.”
Claire and Brandon had barely spoken since their mother died.
I had always blamed grief.
Standing there with a purple eye, I wondered whether I'd blamed grief because it required less effort than asking harder questions.
I showed Claire the PDF.
She read the first page in the parking lot.
Then the signature page.
“Dad, this isn't a transfer.”
“I know.”
“Does Amber?”
“Apparently not.”
Claire enlarged the signature on my phone.
“Did you sign anything around this date?”
I checked.
May 14.
Fourteen months ago.
I remembered the week immediately.
“I was in Round Rock.”
“For what?”
“Knee replacement.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You were in the hospital on the fourteenth.”
That gave me the first genuine chill of the morning.
I had signed plenty of documents during that period.
Consent forms.
Insurance paperwork.
Physical therapy releases.
I had also given Brandon access to several practical things while I recovered.
My utility accounts.
My household checking account.
A limited durable power of attorney my attorney prepared so Brandon could manage certain bills if I was sedated or unable to travel.
I had revoked it after six weeks.
At least, I thought I had.
Claire called my estate attorney before I could object.
Mallory Chen had represented Elaine and me for almost twelve years.
She agreed to meet us that afternoon.
Before we went, Claire asked to see the house renovation invoices.
“I don't have them.”
“You approved nearly two hundred grand in work without invoices?”
“I approved maybe forty thousand.”
She stared at me.
I hated the look.
Not judgment.
Disappointment.
“I trusted him.”
“He knew that.”
That was worse.
At Mallory's office, we compared my genuine signatures with the one on Brandon's document.
Mallory wouldn't call it forged without examining the original.
But she pointed to something I hadn't noticed.
The document referenced a power of attorney dated May 2.
Mine had been signed May 3.
“That could be a clerical error,” she said.
“Or?”
“Or whoever drafted this wasn't working from the actual document.”
She ordered a title report.
Then she searched county records.
No deed transfer.
No recorded ownership interest for Brandon.
No mortgage in his name.
The house remained solely mine.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, Mallory frowned at her screen.
“What?”
“There was an inquiry.”
“From who?”
“A title company requested ownership verification eight months ago.”
“Why?”
“I don't know yet.”
Claire leaned forward.
“Can we find out?”
Mallory nodded.
“If they'll tell us.”
My phone rang.
Brandon.
I declined it.
Then a text appeared.
You talk to a lawyer and I swear I'll make sure everyone knows what kind of father you were.
Claire read it over my shoulder.
I expected her to be angry.
Instead she said quietly, “Save that.”
I did.
Then Mallory's assistant came through the door holding a printout.
The title company had responded faster than expected.
The ownership inquiry hadn't been requested by a contractor.
Or a bank.
It had been requested by a private lender evaluating a loan application.
May you like
The applicant's name was Brandon Reeves.
The proposed collateral was my house.
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