money available to him. He had likely started by persuading himself it was temporary. Then practical. Then deserved. And Tiffany had added style and audacity and poison.
The house would not just be collateral. It would be sold. And the conservatorship was their insurance policy: if I objected, I would be painted as confused, emotional, declining.
By late afternoon, Mara had secured an emergency hearing for Monday morning and a temporary administrative hold on any sale, financing, or transfer. Detective Ruiz had begun a fraud inquiry. The bank had frozen the line.
That evening my phone rang. Peter.
I answered.
“Mom,” he said, in the exact tone men use when they know they have been caught but hope warmth might still save them. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.”
“Can we not do this over the phone?”
“You recorded a deed stealing my house. We can do it however you like.”
