They were already applauding when I walked through the door. My brother Colby sat in my father’s recliner, beer in one hand and a folder on his knee, announcing that he had sold my little house for four hundred and ten thousand dollars. I should be relieved, he said. My mother whispered that they were proud of how quietly he had handled everything.
My father nodded. Homeownership was a lot, he said, and Colby had stepped in before things got worse.
Then I saw the signature on the power of attorney.
It was beautiful. Smooth, confident, almost perfect.
Too perfect.
Colby said I had signed it in my kitchen the day before I left. I told him I had left from my office.
He blinked once.
Then the buyers’ attorney called.
He was asking why police were standing inside his office.
Because eleven days earlier, from six thousand miles away, I had received a deed alert at my work address.
And I had already reported it.
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