Chapter 3 - MY SIGNATURE
The signature looked like mine.
That was the problem.
Not perfect.
Close.
The document was titled:
CONSENT TO TEMPORARY FAMILY PROPERTY ADMINISTRATION.
Beneath it:
Lucas Weaver.
Date:
three months earlier.
I was supposedly authorizing Gwendolyn to assist Florence with property management during cognitive decline.
“I never signed this.”
Detective Mara Cole sat across from me at the hospital conference room.
“Could you have signed a larger packet without noticing?”
The question irritated me because it was possible.
I signed insurance forms.
Company documents.
Home-repair authorizations.
Tax packages.
Gwendolyn often placed sticky tabs.
Sign here.
Here.
Here.
“I don’t remember.”
“That is different from no.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
That distinction mattered.
Florence’s signature appeared on another page.
A management authorization concerning something called:
Weaver Lake Holdings.
I had never heard of it.
The medical bottles mattered too.
Pharmacy records showed Florence’s regular prescriptions had been refilled normally.
But one sedative had been filled at two different pharmacies.
One prescription from Dr. Crane.
Another from an urgent-care physician Gwendolyn contacted during a “behavioral crisis.”
Florence denied ever visiting urgent care.
The appointment had been telehealth.
Gwendolyn sat beside her.
The video platform records might matter.
Angela Ruiz asked me:
“When did you first notice confusion?”
“January.”
“What did it look like?”
“Repeating questions. Forgetting where things were. Accusing people of moving objects.”
“What people?”
“Mostly Gwendolyn.”
She looked up.
“Examples?”
Florence said her jewelry moved.
That her mail disappeared.
That Gwendolyn entered her room at night.
I dismissed some of it.
I said:
“Grandma, you’re adjusting to living here.”
Once she accused Gwendolyn of replacing her pills.
I told her:
“Your medication organizer is confusing you.”
Angela did not need to say anything.
My own words were enough.
Then:
“Did Florence ever ask to leave?”
I stared at the table.
“Twice.”
“And?”
“The first time we toured assisted living. She hated it.”
“Second?”
“She asked to go back to her apartment.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“The building repair was delayed.”
Was it?
I had never called the building manager myself.
Gwendolyn handled it.
Angela made one phone call.
The water damage had been repaired five months ago.
Florence could have returned anytime.
My wife had lied.
I felt sick.
Why keep a seventy-six-year-old woman in our home?
Control.
Money.
Caregiver payment?
Gwendolyn received none officially.
Then the leather bag.
Property papers.
Sedatives.
I wanted the answer immediately.
Detective Cole refused to give me one.
“We need records.”
Good.
Still infuriating.
Florence slept most of the morning.
When she woke, I sat beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at me.
“For what?”
“I didn’t listen.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You listened to your wife.”
“That isn’t better.”
“No.”
“I need you to tell me what Weaver Lake Holdings is.”
Her expression changed.
“Not yet.”
“Grandma.”
“Police first.”
“They already have the name.”
“She found the papers?”
“Yes.”
Florence stared toward the window.
Then whispered:
“Did she find the blue folder?”
“No.”
At least I did not think so.
“What is in it?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
I almost raised my voice.
Stopped.
Everyone had been deciding what Florence needed to say and when.
I was not going to become another one.
“Okay.”
She looked surprised.
Then took my hand.
“Lucas.”
“Yes?”
“Your wife did not start with the medicine.”
My blood went cold.
“What did she start with?”
May you like
Florence looked at her bruised arms.
“The mail.”
