Peter arrived at three-twelve. He saw Ruiz. He saw Mara. He saw Tiffany on the porch with packed bags. Whatever hope he had brought with him vanished from his face.
He looked terrible. Too thin around the mouth, the expensive coat unable to disguise the collapse underneath.
“Mom,” he said.
“Did you forge my deed?” I asked.
He closed his eyes.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said.
The rain, the gulls, the distant traffic. All of it seemed to recede around that single syllable.
“I had the deed prepared. I had it recorded. I told myself I’d reverse it once I solved everything.”
“When would you have reversed selling my house?”
He had no answer.
Tiffany stepped forward. “He did what he had to do. We’re family.”
I turned to her. “No,” I said. “You are a thief with good lipstick.”
Her mouth fell open.
Ruiz quietly advised Peter not to continue discussing the matter without counsel. Peter looked at the detective as if criminality had only just arrived as a concept.
