Chapter 8: What Moving Faster Meant
I didn't sleep well.
I lay in my room with the new deadbolt locked and listened to the house — Sloan's voice through the wall, low and continuous, the kind of talking that doesn't stop because the person on the other end is being given instructions.
At two in the morning, I heard a door open and close.
At two-fifteen, I heard a car in the driveway.
I didn't go to the window.
I lay still and waited.
In the morning, I came downstairs to find the door to my husband's study open.
I had kept it closed since he passed.
Not locked — I had never felt the need.
It was simply closed, the way you keep a room closed when the person who belonged in it is gone.
The filing cabinet in the corner had been opened.
The bottom drawer, where my husband had kept property documents, insurance records, and the original deed, was not fully closed.
A quarter inch of space where it should have been flush.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment.
Then I called Patricia.
"They went through my husband's study last night," I said.
"The filing cabinet.
Property documents."
"Are any documents missing?"
I crossed the room and opened the drawer.
Everything appeared to be there — but appeared was not the same as was.
"I don't know yet.
I need to check."
"Don't touch anything else.
Take photographs of the drawer as it is right now.
Every paper, every folder, the order they're in." Her voice was brisk and calm.
"Then call me back."
I photographed everything.
It took twenty minutes.
When I called back, Patricia had already spoken to Gerald.
"The original deed is registered with the county," she said.
"They can't alter that.
But if they took a copy of the property survey or the original title insurance documents, they may be trying to build a paper trail to support the adverse possession claim.
Make it look more substantial than it is."
"Can they do that?"
"They can try.
It won't work.
But it will cost you more time and more money to untangle." A pause.
"This also tells us something important."
"That they're panicking."
"That Sloan is panicking," Patricia said.
"Harrison's name isn't on that claim, remember.
She's running her own operation here.
The question is how much Harrison actually knows about what she's doing."
I thought about the car in the driveway at two in the morning.
"Someone came to the house last night," I said.
"After midnight."
"Did you see who?"
"No."
"I'm going to make a call," Patricia said.
"I have a colleague who handles situations like this — when a property dispute starts involving document access and late-night visitors.
His name is Detective Ray Caulfield.
He's retired from the force but he consults.
He's very discreet."
"You think this warrants that?"
"I think Sloan filed a legal claim the morning after you confronted Harrison about eighteen thousand dollars.
I think someone entered your husband's private study overnight.
And I think she told someone on the phone last night that they needed to move faster." Patricia's voice was even.
"Yes, Lorraine.
I think it warrants that."
After I hung up, I sat at the kitchen table with my tea and looked at the study door.
Harrison's car was still not in the driveway.
Sloan came downstairs at nine.
She walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stood looking into it with her back to me.
"Good morning," I said.
She didn't answer.
"Someone was in the study last night," I said.
She closed the refrigerator without taking anything.
Turned around.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
Her face was composed.
Her voice was level.
But her right hand, hanging at her side, was closed into a fist so tight her knuckles had gone pale.
"Of course not," I said, and poured myself more tea.
She left the kitchen without another word.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*Mrs.
Caldwell.
My name is Ray Caulfield.
Patricia asked me to reach out.
I think we should meet today.
There are some things you need to know about your daughter-in-law that go beyond the property claim.*
May you like
I read it twice.
Then I typed back: *Tell me where.*
