Then the final one registered.
“Deed?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think I’d remember signing away property.”
He looked at me.
Not satisfied.
Not doubtful.
Careful.
“Think.”
I searched my memory again.
“No.”
Dad nodded once.
“That helps.”
“Helps what?”
He took a breath. “There may be a document with your name on it.”
“May be?”
“I have a copy of a reference to one.”
“Then show me.”
“Not yet.”
I laughed.
It came out badly.
“Are you trying to drive me insane?”
“No.”
He reached into his jacket.
The brown envelope shifted.
“I want a certified copy.
I want the original transaction history, and I want somebody independent to compare the signature.”
“Whose?”
He looked directly at me.
“Yours.”
I went still.
“And the thousand dollars?” “Records. Legal assistance. The comparison.”
“Who is the attorney?”
“Priya Desai.”
I had never heard the name.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Dad glanced back at our house.
The kitchen curtains moved slightly.
Natalie.
Maybe watching.
Maybe simply opening a window.
“I didn’t want to walk into your marriage carrying an accusation I couldn’t support.”
“What accusation?”
He reached for his cane.
“Call Priya if something happens before I finish.”
“What do you mean, something happens?”
“I haven’t been feeling well.”
My stomach tightened.
“How unwell?” “Enough that the hospital wants me evaluated again.”
“You should have started there.”
“Then you’d have spent the whole afternoon talking about my blood pressure.”
“Because it matters.”
“So do the papers.”
He stepped down.
I followed.
“Dad, are you worried about Natalie?”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
“I didn’t say her name.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He reached the gate.
“Grant.”
“What?”
“When you see the documents, read them before you call anyone.”
“Anyone?” “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because once someone gives you an explanation, it’s hard not to start reading the evidence through it.”
I stared.
“You expect me not to believe you?”
“I expect you to listen to both sides.”
“Then whose side am I supposed to hear?”
He rested one hand on the gate.
“For once, your own.”
Then he walked away.
I stood there watching him reach his Buick.
The brown envelope pressed against his jacket.
Behind me, the screen door opened.
Natalie stepped onto the porch.
“Did he tell you what the money is for?”
“Legal documents.”
She became very still.
Then: “About what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her eyes moved toward the disappearing Buick.
“Grant.”
“Yes?”
“Your father has been getting strange about money.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“He keeps asking about old property records.”
“Maybe there’s a problem.”
“Or maybe he’s getting confused.”
That sentence landed harder than she intended.
I looked toward the street.
My father had recently misplaced his reading glasses twice.
He occasionally repeated a story.
He was seventy-one.
But the man who had just spoken to me knew an exact date, a type of deed, the purpose of a signature comparison, and the name of his attorney.
Confusion wasn’t the first explanation I would choose. Natalie touched my arm.
“I just don’t want you worrying unnecessarily.”
I looked at her.
“Neither do I.”
She smiled.
“Then come inside.”
I followed.
The mail was still arranged in precise stacks.
Natalie picked up the top envelope and asked:
“Did he take all the cash?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The thousand.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Relief. Concern.
I couldn’t tell.
“Good.”
I stared.
“Why?”
She looked up.
“Because I wanted to know whether he had what he needed.”
Then she turned toward the counter.
“Dinner at seven?”
I watched her straighten the envelopes again.
My father had asked for money.
My wife wanted to know exactly how much he had taken.
And somewhere, apparently, there was a document dated March ninth bearing my signature.
A signature I could not remember making.
That evening I checked our household filing cabinet.
Nothing.
I searched my computer.
Nothing. Then I opened the county property-recording website.
A deed appeared.
Recorded March 12.
Executed March 9.
Grant Mercer.
Natalie Mercer.
I clicked the document.
My name was printed beneath a signature.
The image was blurred.
But one detail was unmistakable.
The document purported to transfer my ownership interest in our house to my wife.