She gave me a look.
“Mark.”
“What? I’m trying to be supportive.”
“Try being supportive without insulting my child.”
I lifted my hands.
“Understood. I’ll insult her paperwork instead.”
That earned me a small smile.
For the next several days, we worked together.
Sarah called banks and attorneys. I helped her organize documents and retrieve copies of old statements. We made appointments, wrote down questions, and built a timeline of everything that had happened.
The more we learned, the worse it looked.
Several transactions had been made without Sarah’s knowledge. A large sum had disappeared from an account she had shared with Jenna for household expenses. Documents associated with the property sale contained signatures Sarah insisted were not hers.
Her daughter hadn’t simply made a mistake.
Someone had planned this.
And Sarah was determined to find out who.
Meanwhile, my house began to change.
The spare room became less like a temporary shelter and more like a place where someone actually lived. Sarah bought groceries, organized the kitchen, and somehow convinced my neglected houseplants to stop looking as though they were preparing for their funerals.
