Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE THEY COULDN’T FORCE OUT OF HER
Mom reached for the paper.
I folded it once and slipped it into my back pocket.
“What is that?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“It’s old paperwork.”
“Then why was it under Gwen’s mattress?”
“She hides things.”
Paige had followed us down the hallway.
She leaned against the doorframe.
“She’s paranoid.”
I looked at the scratches near the knob.
“Why is the lock outside?”
“We already told you.”
“For her safety.”
Mom nodded.
“She wanders.”
“Gwen doesn’t sleepwalk.”
“She does now.”
I looked at her.
Mom held my gaze.
Four years had changed something in both of us.
I used to believe her certainty meant she knew things.
Now I heard how often certainty was just the absence of being challenged.
I smiled.
“I need a shower.”
Paige relaxed.
“Your room’s ready.”
“Our room?”
She hesitated.
“Yours.”
I glanced toward Gwen’s cot.
“I’m sleeping with my wife.”
Mom’s expression sharpened.
“That might not be good for her.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Gwen was still outside.
I found her stacking dried plates into a plastic tub.
“Come with me.”
Her eyes moved toward the kitchen window.
“Where?”
“Inside.”
“No.”
“Gwen.”
“Please don’t.”
I lowered my voice.
“I found the paper.”
Her face drained.
“The release.”
Her fingers began shaking.
I moved closer.
“What is it?”
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
She looked toward Paige’s truck.
Then whispered, “Bathroom.”
Ten minutes later we stood in the upstairs bathroom with the shower running.
Gwen closed the door.
Then checked it twice.
I wanted to ask a hundred questions.
Instead I asked the smallest one.
“Are you safe with me?”
She stared.
“What?”
“Do you believe I’m going to take you back downstairs and tell them what you say?”
Her mouth trembled.
“I don’t know.”
That answer nearly broke me.
I nodded.
“Fair.”
She sat on the closed toilet lid.
I stayed beside the sink.
“What is the spousal release?”
She rubbed both palms against her knees.
“The house.”
“What about it?”
“They need my signature.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know all the legal words.”
“Tell me the ones you know.”
“Ratify.”
I pulled the paper from my pocket.
“Ratification.”
“Yes.”
“And release.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the first deed is wrong.”
My pulse changed.
“What first deed?”
“The one transferring the lot to your mother.”
I stared at her.
“You knew about that?”
“I found out after.”
“When?”
“Almost two years ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes lifted.
“I did.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Christmas.”
I remembered that call.
Mom had been in the room with Gwen.
Gwen sounded distant.
She kept saying she wanted to talk privately.
Mom laughed and said Gwen had become dramatic since construction started.
I told Gwen we could discuss everything when I came home.
I had another sixteen months on my contract.
Then the company offered an extension.
I accepted.
I looked away.
“What did you tell me at Christmas?”
“That something was wrong with the deed.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Because your mother took the phone.”
I did remember a sudden crash.
Mom coming on the line.
“Gwen dropped the phone again.”
I had laughed.
“Why didn’t you call later?”
“I tried.”
She looked at me.
“Your number stopped accepting my calls.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Paige changed my phone plan.”
“She couldn’t block calls to me from your phone.”
“I didn’t have my phone anymore.”
My stomach turned.
“Where is it?”
“They sold it.”
“Who?”
“Paige.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Why?”
“Because I took pictures of the paperwork.”
I stared at her.
The shower kept running.
Steam filled the mirror.
“What did they do when they found out?”
Gwen touched her scalp.
Not dramatically.
Just one finger brushing the wool cap.
I understood.
“Paige shaved your head?”
Her eyes filled.
“Both of them.”
My hands curled against the sink.
“When?”
“First time in April.”
“First?”
She looked down.
“They did it again three weeks ago.”
I turned away before the rage reached my face.
The bathroom suddenly felt too small.
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t sign.”
“What happens if you sign?”
“They can refinance.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard them.”
“Refinance what?”
“The house.”
“It’s already in Mom’s name.”
“Not cleanly.”
I looked back.
“What does that mean?”
Gwen pulled her cardigan tighter.
“The title company said the deed has a problem.”
“What problem?”
“My signature.”
“Did Mom forge it?”
“I think so.”
My chest tightened.
The lot had originally been purchased in both our names.
Gavin Cole and Gwen Cole, husband and wife.
I remembered signing papers before I left.
Construction authorization.
A limited power of attorney so Mom could deal with the city and contractors.
Nothing transferring ownership.
“If they forged your signature, why do they need you now?”
“They need me to sign that.”
She pointed toward my pocket.
“The ratification makes the old deed good.”
“Who told you?”
“A woman from the title company called once.”
“When?”
“Before Paige took my phone.”
“What did you say?”
“That I never signed the deed.”
“And?”
“She said not to sign anything else until I talked to a lawyer.”
I swallowed.
“Did you?”
Gwen laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
“With what phone?”
The shower water turned cold.
I shut it off.
“What else did they do?”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“Later.”
“No.”
“Gavin.”
“I’m taking you out of here tonight.”
Fear flashed across her face.
“No.”
“Why?”
“You can’t.”
“They’ve been locking you in a room.”
“I know.”
“I saw your scalp.”
“I know.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
She stood.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Her voice dropped.
“They have papers with your signature too.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Loans?”
She nodded.
“How much?”
“I heard one eighty.”
“One hundred eighty thousand dollars?”
“I think.”
I stared at her.
She reached for my hand.
“Don’t fight them tonight.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
“No.”
“You get that look before you do something.”
“What look?”
“The stupid one.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
She did not.
“They think you’re still their son who believes everything.”
I looked toward the bathroom door.
“For tonight, I am.”
Gwen studied me.
Then whispered, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I kept one copy.”
“Of the loan?”
“No.”
“What?”
She knelt beside the sink cabinet.
From behind a loose baseboard she pulled a small plastic freezer bag.
Inside was a hospital wristband.
A folded discharge sheet.
And a tiny brass key.
“What does the key open?”
“Your father’s old toolbox.”
“Dad’s toolbox is in Mom’s garage.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Paige moved it.”
“Where?”
“The storage unit on West Bypass.”
I stared at the key.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why does it matter?”
May you like
Gwen swallowed.
“Because the night your mother found out I wouldn’t sign the ratification, she told Paige, ‘If Gavin ever sees what’s in that box, we’re finished.’”
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