She answered on the second ring.
I set my purse on her desk, took out the conservatorship petition and the listing pages, and told her everything. The arrival. Tiffany at the door. The changed lock. The conversation through the window. Peter’s name on the petition.
Mara read every page twice. Then she leaned back and exhaled through her nose.
“That little snake,” she said with admirable clarity.
She asked the questions I should have asked myself sooner. Who holds title? Me, alone. Any power of attorney to Peter? Never. Any authorization to list or manage? No. Discuss conservatorship with anyone? No.
“Good,” she said. “Then what they’ve drafted is not only obscene. It may also be stupid.”
She made calls. The title company. The bank. A detective named Ruiz who handled property fraud. A judge’s chambers clerk about emergency relief.
Then she walked me to the county records office.
