Chapter 4 - The House I Never Bought
I drove to Montclair the following morning.
Eleanor had advised me not to approach anyone at the property, but she agreed that seeing it from a public street might help me understand what we were dealing with.
The house stood on a quiet, tree-lined road.
White siding.
Dark shutters.
A wide front porch decorated with evergreen garlands.
A black SUV sat in the driveway.
I parked half a block away.
According to the deed Eleanor had obtained, the property belonged to me.
According to my memory, I'd never seen it before.
And according to the financial records we'd begun examining, someone had used my identity in connection with its purchase.
Eleanor had already warned me that the deed alone did not establish where the purchase money came from. We would need closing documents, loan records, and bank statements.
Still, my name was there.
That was enough to make my hands shake.
At eleven-fifteen, the front door opened.
A woman stepped onto the porch carrying a cardboard box.
She looked to be in her early thirties, with auburn hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
A little boy followed her.
He couldn't have been older than five.
The woman set the box beside the SUV and knelt to zip his jacket.
Then the boy pointed toward the street.
I ducked instinctively.
The woman looked in my direction.
For a moment, our eyes met through the windshield.
She frowned.
I started the engine and drove away.
Back at Eleanor's office, I described what I'd seen.
“A woman and a child?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize either of them?”
“No.”
Eleanor wrote something down.
“Let's avoid assumptions.”
She slid a folder across her desk.
Inside were copies of the property filings.
The deed had been recorded in my name.
The associated mortgage paperwork appeared to contain my signature.
And the mailing address for certain notices was not my home.
It was a private mailbox in Livingston.
“Could Daniel have arranged this without my knowledge?” I asked.
“Someone could have used information he had access to. But we haven't established who signed or submitted these documents.”
“Can we report it?”
“Yes. And we should.”
She explained that we needed to contact the lender's fraud department, request the closing file, file an identity-theft report, and preserve the relevant records.
We also needed to protect my actual home.
I owned it outright.
Thomas and I had paid off the mortgage before he died.
Eleanor ordered a title search to determine whether any unauthorized liens or filings had been recorded against it.
Then she looked at me.
“Margaret, there's something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“The Montclair property is being advertised for rent.”
“By whom?”
“Whitmore Property Management.”
I stared at her.
“Someone is collecting rent on a house in my name?”
“Possibly. We need the lease and payment records.”
“How long has this been happening?”
“At least several months, based on the listing history.”
I leaned back.
For fourteen years, I'd given Daniel money because he told me his family was struggling.
Now I was discovering a property I didn't know I owned, a management company I'd never authorized, and a paper trail carrying a signature that wasn't mine.
I felt foolish.
Worse than foolish.
I felt used.
Eleanor seemed to read my thoughts.
“Don't blame yourself for trusting your son.”
“But I should have checked.”
“You should have been able to trust him.”
I looked at the folder.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If Daniel did this, what happens to him?”
She didn't answer immediately.
“That depends on the evidence and what authorities determine. Forged signatures and fraudulent loan applications can have serious consequences.”
“He has children.”
“I know.”
“They need their father.”
“They also need adults who don't teach them that deception has no consequences.”
I turned toward the window.
Across the street, people were walking into a bakery.
Normal people.
Living normal lives.
I envied them.
At four that afternoon, Claire called.
I nearly ignored her.
Then I answered.
“Margaret.”
Her voice was unusually controlled.
“Hello, Claire.”
“We need to discuss Daniel.”
“I'm listening.”
“He's under tremendous pressure.”
“So I've heard.”
“You have no idea what he's dealing with.”
“Then perhaps someone should tell me the truth.”
A pause.
“Are you threatening us?”
“No.”
“Because Daniel says you've hired a lawyer.”
“I have.”
Her breathing changed.
“What kind of lawyer?”
“The same attorney who handled Thomas's estate.”
“Why?”
“I'm reviewing my finances.”
Another silence.
Then Claire asked, “Have you found anything unusual?”
I stared at the phone.
“Why would you ask that?”
“No reason.”
“Claire.”
“I just don't want this to become ugly.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then leave the past alone.”
Those words chilled me.
“What past?”
She didn't answer.
“Claire?”
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
That evening, I received an email from an unfamiliar address.
There was no greeting.
No signature.
Just one sentence.
If you want to know who lives in the Montclair house, ask your son where he was every Thursday for the last three years.
Attached was a photograph.
Daniel stood on the porch of the Montclair house.
Beside him was the auburn-haired woman.
And between them stood the little boy.
Daniel had his arm around the woman's shoulders.
The child was holding his hand.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, someone had written three words.
Our little family.
