That afternoon, I drove to the bank on my lunch break. The lobby smelled like carpet cleaner and burnt coffee. I didn’t accuse.
I asked questions. Polite ones. The kind you ask when you don’t want anyone to know how close you are to the edge.
The loan officer, a young guy with a tight smile, confirmed that someone had called asking about my eligibility for a home equity line. Not me. A woman.
Said she was helping her stepfather manage things. “Did she have authorization?” I asked. He shifted in his chair.
“She mentioned you were considering granting it.”
Mentioned. Not provided. That was enough.
I went back to work, shut my office door, and called Detective Harris. He listened, didn’t interrupt. When I finished, he let out a slow breath.
“This isn’t uncommon,” he said. “What makes it dangerous is the timing. Audio surveillance plus guardianship paperwork is a bad combination.”
“So what do I do?” I asked.
“You keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” he said. “And you don’t sign a thing.”
That night, Megan came over again. She brought dessert this time.
Store-bought. Smiling. “Mom said you found some paperwork,” she said lightly, as if she were talking about a recipe.
“I was just trying to help get things organized. You know, for the future.”
“The future?” I repeated. She nodded.
“At our age, it’s smart to plan.”
Our age. I looked at Elaine. She wouldn’t meet my eyes for a moment.
Just one. I wanted to end it. Lay everything out.
Tell them I knew. Tell Megan to get out. Instead, I nodded.
“Planning makes sense.”
Megan relaxed just a little. That night, after everyone went to bed, I sat in the car with the earbuds in and talked about scheduling a doctor’s appointment. About memory tests.
About wanting someone with me in case I forget something. I hated every word. The next morning, Megan texted.
“I can go with you if you want. It might be easier.”
There it was. The trap almost closed.
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