Chapter 7 - My Name on the ContractLaura immediately sent the photographer back to his car.
She did not touch another thing.
She called her managing broker from my front porch and reported the problem while I stood beside her.
Rebecca kept repeating:
“It was only preliminary.”
Laura finally looked at her.
“Did Mrs. Mercer sign the agreement?”
Rebecca crossed her arms.
“She was going to.”
Laura became completely still.
“That is not what I asked.”
Rebecca looked toward Andrew.
He had come downstairs and was reading the document.
His hands were shaking.
“Rebecca,” he said.
“It was generated electronically.”
“With Mom’s name.”
“We needed the broker to take us seriously.”
“You signed her name?”
“I selected a signature font.”
I almost laughed.
The language people use when they cannot bear the plain description of what they did.
Not forged.
Selected a font.
Not stole.
Borrowed.
Not lied.
Protected.
Laura asked me directly:
“Did you authorize anyone to list this property?”
“No.”
“Did you give Rebecca power of attorney?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize electronic signature?”
“No.”
Laura closed the folder.
“The listing will not go active. Compliance will preserve the submission records.”
Rebecca stepped toward her.
“You don’t have to make this dramatic.”
Laura replied, “I have an owner telling me she did not sign a brokerage contract carrying her name. I absolutely have to document it.”
The front door closed behind Laura.
Then came the silence.
Andrew looked at his wife.
“How did you get into Mom’s filing cabinet?”
“You gave me documents.”
“Some documents.”
“I found the key.”
“Where?”
Rebecca said nothing.
“My desk?” Andrew asked.
Silence.
He stepped backward.
I had never seen him look at her that way.
Not hatred.
Recognition.
As if the person in front of him had rearranged into someone new.
Rebecca turned to me.
“I was trying to find options.”
“You were trying to manufacture my agreement.”
“I knew once we explained everything, you would understand.”
“I said no.”
“That was after.”
“No. You contacted Laura before you asked.”
She opened her mouth.
I continued.
“You needed a sale before you needed my permission.”
For the first time, she had no quick answer.
I told her she had eleven days left to move.
She stared at me.
“If I cooperate, can we stay longer?”
“No.”
“Elaine—”
“No.”
“What do you want from me?”
The question surprised me.
Even now, she thought the answer must be transactional.
“Everything.”
She frowned.
“The truth.”
Rebecca’s face tightened.
Then she said:
“You think you know everything already.”
I watched her.
“No.”
Her expression changed.
Something almost like triumph returned.
“You don’t.”
That night, Andrew searched their shared bank statements.
At 1:17 in the morning, he knocked on my bedroom door.
He was holding a laptop.
His face looked sick.
“Mom.”
I sat up.
May you like
“What?”
“I found where some of the money went.”
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