“Grace, we have a problem,” Mr. Harper said.
His voice was tight, controlled, but I could hear the anger underneath.
“What kind of problem?”
“Someone tried to transfer two of your properties into Benjamin and Leah’s names. The documents came through this morning.”
The room tilted.
“What?”
“Two properties. The one on Cottage Grove and the one on King Drive. Combined value of about $1.3 million. The paperwork has your signature on it. But, Grace, I know your signature. This isn’t it.”
My properties.
From everything I’d built.
I sat down.
My legs wouldn’t hold me anymore.
“They forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Grace, I need to tell you something else. Leah came to see me three weeks ago—alone. She wanted information about your holdings, all of them. She said you’d asked her to handle your affairs but couldn’t remember the details.”
My hands were trembling.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I told her that any information about your estate required your direct authorization and physical presence. She wasn’t happy. She implied you were becoming forgetful, that maybe I should consider whether you were still competent to manage your own affairs.”
“She tried to get you to declare me incompetent.”
“She tried,” Mr. Harper said. “But I’ve known you for thirty years, Grace. I know exactly how sharp you are. That’s why when these documents came through, I knew immediately something was wrong.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you stop the transfer?”
“Already done. I’ve flagged both properties. Nothing can be transferred without you physically present in my office with two forms of ID. But, Grace…” He paused. “You need to deal with this. If they’re willing to forge documents, they’re willing to do worse.”
After I hung up, I sat there.
Just sat there, breathing.
Seventy years old.
And my family was forging documents to steal everything I’d built.
Then I pulled out my phone and opened the camera app.
I scrolled through the footage from the last few weeks looking for something specific.
And that’s when I found it.
I found it three days later—October 12th.
Leah in the office, on the phone.
“It’s done,” she said. “I signed the papers this morning. Use the scanner at the library so there’s no trail.”
Pause.
“Benjamin doesn’t need to know the details. He just needs to trust me. And he does.”
Pause.
“Once the properties transfer, we can start the process of getting her declared incompetent. I’ve already been documenting everything—her confusion, her forgetfulness. I’ve got three family members ready to testify that she’s losing it.”
Another pause.
Then she laughed.
“Claire, the woman is seventy years old and living alone in a house that’s falling apart. Who’s going to believe she’s competent enough to manage $4 million in real estate? The court will give Benjamin power of attorney. And once he has that…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t need to.
I saved the video, backed it up, and sent it to Mr. Harper.
Then I scrolled back further, looking for Benjamin.
I found him two weeks earlier—October 1st.
Late night.
