Chapter 6 - THE PLAN THEY HAD FOR WHEN GWEN REFUSED AGAIN
There was no medical power of attorney.
Not yet.
There was a packet.
Sarah obtained it from the title-company file because Margaret had mistakenly included the draft while trying to explain why Gwen was “difficult.”
It was prepared by a Springfield law office.
A petition for guardianship and conservatorship over Gwen.
I stared at the title.
“She’s thirty-eight.”
Sarah nodded.
“Adults can have guardians appointed if a court finds incapacity. Age isn’t the issue.”
“She isn’t incapacitated.”
“I know.”
The petition had never been filed.
That mattered.
But someone had paid to prepare it.
The draft described Gwen as mentally unstable.
Malnourished because of “disordered eating.”
Paranoid.
Unable to handle money.
Obsessed with false accusations.
It claimed she had destroyed household property.
Threatened Paige.
Hidden family funds.
And become fixated on the belief that Margaret was stealing from Gavin.
I felt physically sick.
Every effect of their treatment had been converted into evidence against her.
Starve her.
Call the weight loss an eating disorder.
Lock her in a room.
Call her panic instability.
Hide money in an account under her name.
Call her a thief.
Shave her head.
Call it self-destructive behavior.
Sarah looked at Gwen.
“Did anyone ever take you to a psychiatrist?”
“No.”
“Therapist?”
“Your mother made an appointment.”
“When?”
“July.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“The therapist asked Margaret to leave.”
Gwen’s mouth tightened.
“I told her everything.”
My pulse changed.
“What did she do?”
“She said I needed a safety plan.”
“Why didn’t you leave then?”
“Margaret was waiting outside.”
Sarah asked, “Do you remember the therapist’s name?”
“Dr. Elaine Porter.”
Sarah wrote it down.
“With your permission, we can request your records.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Gwen.
“Did Dr. Porter report anything?”
“She asked if I wanted police.”
“And?”
Gwen looked ashamed.
“I said no.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother told me Tyler would swear I attacked Paige.”
Paige’s boyfriend.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Paige slapped me.”
Gwen touched her ribs.
“I pushed her away.”
The story was almost boring in its repetition.
Create conflict.
Capture only the part useful later.
Sarah said, “Do not punish yourself for choices you made under threat.”
Gwen looked at her.
“I’m not.”
Then she looked at me.
“He is.”
She was right.
I had started making a private list of every moment I should have known.
Sarah apparently saw it.
“Gavin, guilt is not evidence.”
“I know.”
“Then stop using it like a spreadsheet.”
That shut me up.
The police investigation moved separately.
Gwen provided the hospital report and additional details.
The locked room complicated things because Margaret claimed Gwen chose to sleep there after “marital depression.”
The scratches complicated that claim.
So did the external lock.
An officer photographed it after we arranged a supervised retrieval of Gwen’s belongings.
Mom stood in the driveway.
“You brought police to my house.”
I looked at her.
“My house?”
Her face hardened.
“You know what I mean.”
Paige filmed us on her phone.
Of course she did.
“Look at this,” she narrated loudly. “My brother comes back from Canada and lets a crazy woman turn him against his family.”
The officer said, “Ma’am, stop interfering.”
Paige lowered the phone.
For once.
Gwen collected clothing.
Her sewing kit.
A photograph of us from Branson.
Three paperback novels.
Nothing else.
Four years of living in a house I funded fit into two grocery bags.
As we left, Mom called after me.
“What about your settlement?”
I almost laughed.
There it was.
“I’m still sorting the tax problem.”
Her expression softened instantly.
“Then we should talk privately.”
“Soon.”
Back at the hotel, Gwen stared at me.
“You’re still going to lie to them.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they still think four hundred thousand dollars is coming.”
“And?”
“I want to know what they’ll move to get it.”
Gwen frowned.
“That sounds like one of your terrible ideas.”
“I have a lawyer now.”
“Still terrible.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Sarah hated it too.
“No entrapment games.”
“I’m not law enforcement.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m asking Mom for records she voluntarily wants to provide.”
“That is different.”
“So I can keep asking?”
She sighed.
“Through counsel whenever possible.”
Boring.
Safe.
Useful.
Mom emailed me that night.
Subject:
CANADIAN SETTLEMENT ASSETS.
Attached were spreadsheets.
She had listed the house at $510,000.
Truck: $52,000.
Savings: $74,000.
Furniture and jewelry: $63,000.
She labeled all of it:
GAVIN FAMILY INVESTMENTS.
It was almost helpful.
My own mother had created a schedule showing that assets in her or Paige’s names had been purchased with money I sent.
Then I reached the last attachment.
A proposed affidavit.
It stated that I had always intended all funds sent from Canada to be gifts to Margaret.
I called Sarah.
“She wants me to sign this.”
“Don’t.”
“I figured.”
“Anything else?”
I scrolled.
“Yes.”
A second affidavit.
This one stated that Gwen had no ownership interest in the house and had voluntarily relinquished all claims.
Her signature appeared at the bottom.
Not blank.
Signed.
Notarized yesterday.
I looked at Gwen.
“Were you with a notary yesterday?”
She stared at the page.
“No.”
The signature looked nearly perfect.
Then Gwen pointed at the witness line.
My sister’s boyfriend had signed.
May you like
Tyler Reed.
And the notary was Sandra Phelps again.
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