It was the same gray sedan.
Monica stepped out carrying an envelope.
“We’re offering you $90,000,” she announced. “You sign an agreement, stop investigating, and leave Ohio.”
Opal watched from the doorway.
“I’m not signing anything,” I said.
Monica’s smile disappeared.
“Do you know how little time you have before your house is sold?”
A wave of dread hit me.
“What did you do?”
She produced a copied deed bearing numerous official stamps and recorder’s annotations.
“The property secures a debt that’s in default. If you keep pushing, you could end up with nothing.”
I skimmed the pages.
A purported general power of attorney supposedly allowed Trevor to place a mortgage on my house.
My signature appeared beneath it.
Then I noticed its document number.
It matched an old limited power of attorney I’d granted solely for administrative matters.
Monica leaned close and whispered:
“You have until tomorrow to accept. After that, neither your little house nor that old woman will be able to protect you.”
