I waited until footsteps receded. Then I slipped through the side mudroom door, which used the old lock Tiffany had apparently forgotten to change. My key slid in.
I crossed the kitchen in silence and went straight to the printer in the built-in nook. Four pages in the tray.
The first was a listing packet from a real estate office in Newport with my property address across the top. The second was a draft for a luxury short-term rental transition. The third was a preliminary valuation with a figure that made my stomach drop.
The fourth stopped my breath entirely.
Petition for Emergency Temporary Conservatorship of Rosalind Margaret Hale.
My name. My date of birth. Language describing recent cognitive decline, disorganized financial judgment, inability to independently manage secondary residential property.
Applicant: Peter Hale, son.
I snatched the pages from the tray, pressed them under my coat, eased the mudroom door closed without letting it click, went through the gate and around the block and did not stop walking until I reached my car.
