Peter set his briefcase on the dining table while Emma drifted toward the refrigerator, studying the drawings. “Mr. Brandt, I should be honest with you before we begin,” he said quietly. “Yesterday morning, a woman called our office claiming to hold your power of attorney. She wanted the house listed at nine hundred sixty thousand dollars, with no showings and a signing next week.” Walter’s hands tightened on the table. “I have never given anyone power of attorney,” he said.

Peter slid a paper across the table. It bore Walter’s name at the bottom, notarized two weeks earlier. Walter stared at the signature, a careful imitation of his own. Then Emma turned from the refrigerator and said, in a small voice, “Mr. Brandt, a lady in a blue coat was standing outside your gate when we parked. She took a picture of our car and walked away fast.”