Chapter 5: Seventy-Two Hours
Patricia Holt picked up on the second ring.
"Nora.
I've been hoping you'd call."
I gripped the phone.
"You already know."
"I received a document filing this morning.
A property transfer request tied to your father's estate.
It came through a firm I don't recognize, with a notarized signature that is supposed to be yours." A pause.
"It isn't yours."
"No.
It isn't."
"I've already flagged it and put a hold on processing.
But Nora, the firm that filed it is pushing hard.
They've cited a marital transfer clause and they're arguing the hold is procedurally invalid."
"How long does the hold last?"
"Seventy-two hours from this morning.
After that, if I can't produce a counter-filing with evidence of fraud, the transfer goes through automatically."
I looked at Gerald.
He was watching me, reading my face.
"What do I need?" I asked Patricia.
"The original contract with your father's documentation.
A forensic comparison of the forged signature.
And ideally, a witness who can testify to the circumstances of the forgery."
"I have the contract.
I have a witness." I glanced at Gerald.
He gave a small nod.
"What about the forensic comparison?"
"I have someone I trust.
If you can get the document to me today, she can have a preliminary report by tomorrow morning." Patricia's voice was steady and precise.
"Nora, I want you to understand something.
Your father anticipated this.
The clause he built into the estate filing was specifically designed for this scenario.
If we can trigger the mandatory review before the seventy-two hours expire, everything he documented becomes part of the legal record."
"Barbara will fight it."
"She will.
But she'll be fighting your father's own words.
Dated, signed, and filed before he passed." A brief silence.
"He was a careful man."
My throat tightened.
"Yes.
He was."
"Get me the contract.
Today."
I ended the call and turned to Gerald.
"I need to get the original documents to Patricia before tonight."
"I have copies of everything your father gave me.
Originals are in a deposit box at First Meridian Bank on Calloway Street.
Your father added your name to the access list two months before he passed."
I hadn't known that.
I hadn't known any of this.
"He added me and never told me."
"He didn't want you to go looking before it was necessary." Gerald picked up his satchel.
"He said — and I'm giving you his exact words — 'If she never needs it, that's the best outcome.
If she does, she'll know what to do.'"
I stood up.
The suitcase was at my feet.
My plane ticket was still inside it, useless now.
I wasn't going anywhere.
Not yet.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Ethan: *Barbara says you spoke to someone at the airport.
Nora, please.
Whatever they told you, let me explain first.*
I showed it to Gerald.
He read it without expression.
"They know you met with me."
"How?"
He looked past me toward the terminal entrance.
"Because someone in this building is watching."
I didn't turn around.
"What do we do?"
"We go to the bank," Gerald said.
"Separately.
You take a cab.
I'll meet you there in twenty minutes." He stood, buttoned his jacket.
"Don't use your regular bank card.
Do you have cash?"
"Some."
"Use it." He picked up his coffee cup, then set it back down.
"And Nora — don't go back to that house.
Not for anything."
He walked away toward the far exit without looking back.
I picked up my suitcase and walked in the opposite direction.
Behind me, somewhere in the terminal, my phone buzzed again.
This time it was a number I didn't recognize.
The text read: *We have something that belonged to your father.
Something Gerald doesn't know about.
Meet us or it disappears.*
I stopped walking.
May you like
Stood very still in the middle of the terminal corridor.
Then I took a screenshot, forwarded it to Patricia, and kept moving.
