The first page of the contractor’s folder was an authorization form with my signature at the bottom, dated the Sunday before. Every loop looked like mine, and every letter was wrong. I had been in Denver that entire day, closing my contract, and my phone’s location history proved it. Beneath the form sat a notarized power of attorney I had never seen, stamped with a county seal.

I called the notary named on the stamp. A woman answered, and her voice went quiet when I said my name. “Ms. Hartman,” she whispered, “I never met you. Someone brought that document to my office and paid me cash. I should have told someone.” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with a text from my father: Please call me. Alone. There is something your mother is hiding.