“I’m a hospital administrator,” I said. “Documentation is my job.”
He walked through the house in twenty minutes, took notes, tested faucets, checked the HVAC.
At the kitchen table, he said, “Here’s my offer. $355,000 cash, as-is, seven-day close. I’m an iBuyer. I specialize in fast closings. Here’s why it works. One, I’m paying cash—no bank, no appraisal, no inspection. Two, you’ve provided all documents. That saves five to seven days. Three, I have same-day wire with your mortgage servicer. We order payoff tomorrow, wire funds day four, lien releases within seventy-two hours.”
I didn’t correct him when he said, “for occupants out of country two weeks.” I let it stand.
“The catch,” Thomas continued, “is you handle the occupant situation after closing. I change locks and post thirty-day notice, but the confrontation is yours. I don’t do family drama.”
“Understood,” I said.
He extended his hand. “Deal. Contract tonight. Sign tomorrow. Earnest money: $5,000.”
We shook.
After Thomas left, I drove to Jonathan Stevens’s office.
Jonathan was the attorney Sandra recommended—elder law, fraud, family issues. I’d met him four weeks ago after finding the power of attorney documents in that dining room filing cabinet.
I laid out everything: forged insurance, forged POA, gambling debts, loan sharks, the cruise, the house sale.
Jonathan took notes, reviewed evidence, and said, “Elder financial abuse, combined with forgery, identity theft, conspiracy to commit fraud. But the critical part is this: we don’t move until they’re gone.”
“Why?” I asked.
“If you cancel the insurance now, they get automatic notification within twenty-four hours. They’ll know. They’ll cancel the cruise. They’ll stay and fight the house sale.”
He leaned forward. “We need them out of the country. Once that ship sails five hundred miles offshore, we file everything—insurance fraud report, police report, affidavit declaring the POA void, new POA naming Sandra.”
“What about the cruise charge?” I asked. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Documented—add it to the fraud report,” Jonathan said. “But don’t dispute it until after they’re gone. A declined charge means they don’t board.”
He let the silence hang for a beat.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” he said, “is the price of getting them out of the country.”
“One more thing,” Jonathan added. “When they come back and find the locks changed, they’ll call. Don’t answer. Don’t engage. Let them leave voicemails. Let them text. Every threat is evidence. I’m preparing a restraining order. We file the moment they threaten.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Retainer: $6,000. Covers three months.”
I wrote the check.
I was spending money I didn’t have to escape people who’d been stealing from me for two years.
But I’d spend twice that for my freedom.
Thursday morning—departure day—I woke at 6:00 and listened to the sounds of packing upstairs: suitcases dragging, Amber’s excited voice, Brandon’s laugh.
They came downstairs at 7:30. Four large suitcases, two carry-ons.
“Bye, Mom,” Amber said, hugging me. “Thanks again for being cool about the cruise.”
“Have a wonderful time, sweetheart,” I said.
Brandon shook my hand. “Don’t spend all our inheritance while we’re gone.”
He laughed.
I smiled. “I’ll try not to.”
The Uber arrived at 8:00. I watched from the window as they loaded the luggage, watched the car pull away, watched it disappear around the corner.
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