“That is not an answer.”
“I was trying to secure our future.”
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
Amelia’s gaze sharpened.
“What future required Mrs.
Vale’s signature?”
Thalia looked toward the hallway.
For one reckless second, I thought she might run.
Instead, she snatched her purse from a chair and pulled out a thin tablet.
“Fine,” she said.
“You want the truth? Desmond has been unemployed for eight months, not six.
His severance is gone.
Our credit cards are nearly maxed out.
We needed a way to consolidate the debt.
This house has equity sitting inside it while Estelle works herself to death pretending she needs to protect every penny.”
Desmond stared at her.
“You told me the cards were under control.”
“They would have been if your mother had cooperated.”
My exhaustion disappeared beneath a colder feeling.
“How much debt?” I asked.
Neither of them answered.
Amelia repeated the question.
Desmond finally whispered, “I thought it was around twenty thousand.”
Thalia’s silence told us it was more.
Amelia asked her to place the tablet on the counter.
Thalia refused.
“That belongs to me.”
“Then keep it,” Amelia said.
“But do not delete anything related to the property, the credit application, or communications with the realtor.
You are now on notice that those records may be relevant to an investigation.”
Thalia clutched the tablet against her chest.
The doorbell rang again.
This time, my neighbor Bernice stood outside holding a folded piece of paper.
She had seen Amelia’s car and came over because I had asked her earlier to save anything unusual from the previous weeks.
Bernice was seventy-one, observant, and entirely unimpressed by expensive clothes or dramatic excuses.
“I found this in my recycling bin,” she said as she entered.
“That realtor must have dropped it when he parked near my driveway.”
She unfolded a glossy property information sheet.
Across the top was a photograph of my home.
Beneath it were estimated sale proceeds, renovation recommendations, and a handwritten note.
Owner transitioning to assisted living.
Son will coordinate.
Desmond read the note twice.
“Assisted living?”
Thalia spoke before I could.
“It was only one option.”
“Whose option?” I asked.
“You cannot keep working these shifts forever,” she said.
“Someone had to think practically.”
Bernice gave her a hard look.
“Estelle manages a surgical nursing team.
Last month she coordinated an evacuation when a pipe burst at the hospital.
She is not waiting for you to organize her life.”
Thalia’s jaw tightened.
Desmond picked up the property sheet.
