The first page was a notarized power of attorney, supposedly signed by me, granting my mother full authority over the lake house. My signature looked perfect, except for one thing. The date was a Sunday when I had been on a flight to Chicago, and my boarding pass was still in my email. My hands steadied. I turned to the contractor, Mr. Holloway, and asked quietly, “Who brought you this?”

“Your mother and your brother,” he said. “They told me you were abroad and ill.” I flipped to the last page and found the notary stamp. The notary, Dennis Pryor, had a licensing number printed beneath his name. My stomach tightened, because I recognized the name from my mother’s church. I photographed every page, and then Mr. Holloway added, “Ma’am, there is another folder in my truck. You should see it.”