Pernell’s voice cut gently into my spiral. “Mrs. Vance—Elaine—have you signed a power of attorney for anyone? Anything that would let someone represent you in a sale?”
“No,” I said immediately. “Never.”
He hesitated just long enough to make my skin prickle. “Your husband… could he have—”
“He can’t,” I said, too fast. “Not without my consent.”
“Theoretically,” Pernell said slowly, “he shouldn’t be able to. But practically? People forge. People lie. We’re going to confirm what this is before you confront anyone.”
The snow outside Maria’s window glittered like it had done something cruel.
I thought of Vernon’s cold eyes at the kitchen table, his phone glowing in his hands. I thought of his order to shovel, said like it was nothing.
And I thought of the shovel by my mudroom door, still clean, still unused, the only reason a trail existed to prove what I couldn’t have imagined.
By lunchtime we were downtown at Hearthstone Realty, a glossy office in the city center with frosted glass and a reception desk that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. Pernell had called around to several agencies with similar logos; Hearthstone was the one that confirmed they had sent an appraiser to Chestnut Street the night before.
The director, Isaac Graves, met us with tight politeness that didn’t quite cover his nerves. Expensive suit, careful hair, smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to leather chairs. “How can I help?”
Pernell set his badge on the desk like a paperweight. “Your employee visited 17 Chestnut Street last night for an appraisal. We need details.”
Graves frowned, opened a folder, flipped. “Yes. That’s correct. What’s the issue?”
“The issue,” I said, leaning forward, hands clenched in my lap to keep them from shaking, “is that the house is mine and I never ordered an appraisal.”
Graves blinked. “That’s… unusual. The order is in the owner’s name.” He turned the folder toward us.
On the page I saw my last name, my address. Then Vernon’s full name typed neatly alongside it.
Client/Owner: Vernon Vance.
Owner: Elaine Vance.
I felt my mouth go dry.
“There’s a power of attorney on file,” Graves added quickly, as if that solved it. “Notarized.”
“What power of attorney?” The words scraped out of my throat. “I never gave one.”
Graves pulled out another sheet. “Here. It authorizes your spouse to represent your interests in a real estate transaction.”
I took it with fingers that didn’t feel like mine.
My name. My info. Everything correct.
At the bottom: my signature.
My signature.
Only it wasn’t.
It looked like mine in the way a counterfeit bill looks like money if you don’t hold it to the light.
“It’s forged,” I whispered, and the room tilted slightly. “I didn’t sign this. I never signed this.”
Pernell took the paper from my hands and studied the notary seal, the formatting. “Mr. Graves,” he said, voice controlled, “when did you receive this?”
“A week ago,” Graves said. “Mr. Vance came in person. Said he wanted to sell. Said his wife was aware but didn’t have time to handle paperwork.”
“And you didn’t verify it?” Pernell asked.
“It’s notarized,” Graves said defensively. “We’re not required to call the notary board on every document. We acted in good faith.”
Pernell leaned forward. “Show me everything. Emails. Contracts. Notes. Appraiser’s report. All communication.”
Graves hurried to his computer, clicking and scrolling.
I sat frozen, staring at the power of attorney like it was a venomous thing. Thirty-two years. Trips. Meals. Laundry. Waiting. This house that had been my parents’ and then mine, the one stable piece of my life—and Vernon had tried to move it out from under me like furniture.
Graves turned his monitor. “First contact two weeks ago,” he said. “He emailed about an appraisal and quick sale. Then he came in with documents.”
