He read the documents I’d printed, then looked at my father. “Mr. Beckett,” he said, “did you sign a quitclaim deed transferring your Mount Pleasant home to Hail Premier Properties?”
My father’s face went blank. “No.”
Marcus nodded like he’d expected that. “Then we have a problem,” he said. “And the first thing we do is secure your accounts.”
My father flinched. “Victoria handles those.”
“Not anymore,” Marcus said gently. “Not until we know what happened.”
Over the next week, my life became a quiet machine.
I went back to work—video calls, strategy decks, client demands—because staying functional was a skill I’d learned in grief. But every evening, I met with Marcus. We filed record requests. We pulled bank statements. We set up alerts.
Marcus brought in a forensic specialist named Patricia Sloan, a woman with silver hair and a mind like a scalpel. Patricia didn’t gossip; she dissected.
On the third day, she slid a folder across Marcus’s desk. “This deed transfer,” she said, tapping the paper, “was notarized. That means someone sat in front of a notary and affirmed identity.”
My father’s voice cracked. “I never—”
Patricia nodded. “I know. But look here.”
She pointed to the signature line.