Chapter 7: The Second Document
Greg's call came at 7:04 a.m.
Frederick had been up twice in the night with his ear, and Amy had taken the second shift so I could sleep.
I was on my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.
"The county recorder's office opened their emergency line for me this morning," Greg said, without preamble.
"The transfer was filed Thursday afternoon.
Yesterday.
About eighteen hours before the party."
"So it went through?"
"It was submitted.
It hasn't been fully processed — there's a standard review window.
I've already filed the injunction.
The transfer is frozen as of forty minutes ago."
I set down my coffee cup.
"Good," I said.
"What else?"
"That's the part I need you to sit down for."
"I'm sitting."
"The folder Mason was carrying had two documents.
The police inventoried both.
The first was the deed transfer — your property, signed in your name by someone other than you.
Fraudulent, we handle that.
The second document was a will."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Whose will?" I asked.
"Yours," Greg said.
"Or rather — a document purporting to be your will.
Dated eight months ago.
Signed in your name.
It leaves the house, your savings account, and your life insurance policy to Teresa Bradley, with a secondary beneficiary listed as Robert Bradley."
I didn't speak.
"Connor, Amy is not mentioned anywhere in this document.
Neither is Frederick."
I stood up from the table.
Sat back down.
"I never wrote a will," I said.
"I know.
Which means someone forged your signature on a legal document that would have, upon your death, transferred everything you own away from your wife and son." He paused.
"This is no longer just a property dispute.
This is document fraud, potentially conspiracy, and depending on the intent behind the will — something the DA's office will want to look at very carefully."
"They were planning for multiple outcomes," I said, almost to myself.
"If the deed transfer worked, they got the house while I was alive.
If it didn't — or if something happened to me—"
"The will was the backup," Greg said.
"Yes."
I thought about the monthly three thousand dollars.
Eighteen months of payments.
Fifty-four thousand dollars, sent to my mother in good faith.
I thought about Amy on that plastic stool, too scared to put down the dish she was scrubbing.
I thought about Robert standing at the edge of my driveway twenty-two days ago, looking at the house like he was measuring it.
"Greg," I said.
"What do I do?"
"This morning?
Nothing.
Let me work.
The injunction is filed, the documents are in police custody, and I've already made a call to a colleague in the DA's office.
By Monday, there will likely be formal charges." He paused.
"But Connor — is there anyone else in your family who might have known about this?
Anyone who might have signed something, witnessed something, or been asked to participate?"
I thought about Betsy.
Her purse clasp, opening and closing.
"Possibly," I said.
"I'll find out."
I ended the call and sat at the kitchen table for a long moment.
Amy appeared in the doorway, Frederick on her hip, his small fist wrapped around the collar of her shirt.
"What happened?" she asked.
I told her about the will.
She sat down across from me.
Frederick reached for the edge of the table and she moved him back gently, automatically, without looking away from my face.
"They were going to erase us," she said.
"They tried."
She looked at Frederick.
He was watching a patch of morning light on the wall, completely absorbed by it.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"Greg handles the legal side.
I need to talk to Betsy today.
And then—" I stopped.
"And then what?"
"And then I need to decide what I'm going to do about Teresa."
Amy looked at me steadily.
"She's still your mother."
"I know."
"That doesn't mean you owe her anything.
But I know you know that too." She reached across the table and put her hand over mine.
"Whatever you decide, I'm with you."
Frederick made a sound — a small, pleased sound at nothing in particular — and for just a moment, everything else fell away.
Then my phone buzzed on the table.
A text from an unknown number.
*You made a mistake calling that lawyer.
There are things about Amy you don't know.
Meet me.
Alone.
May you like
I can show you proof.*
It was signed: *— Robert*
