Evelyn leaned against the washing machine, her breath coming in shallow gasps. They weren’t just stealing her week; they were stealing her life. They were going to use her own son’s legal expertise to declare her incompetent so they could liquidate her “little piece of air” to pay for their SUVs and their polished lives.
The Counter-Stitch
Evelyn slipped out as quietly as she had entered. She didn’t go back to the hotel. She went to the office of a woman named Martha Vance, a sharp-eyed real estate attorney Evelyn had once helped by rushing a debutante gown for her daughter.
“Martha,” Evelyn said, sitting in the leather chair, her spine as straight as a needle. “I need a shark. And I think I’ve earned the right to be one.”
By Monday morning, the legal machinery was in motion. Martha discovered something even Evelyn hadn’t expected: Julian had already filed a fraudulent quitclaim deed, forged with a signature that looked like Evelyn’s but lacked the practiced fluidity of a woman who spent her life handling delicate patterns. He had used a notary who happened to be Beatrix’s cousin.