Chapter 3
“Then I’ll find them.”
I walked into the small home office where we kept our financial records. I searched the filing cabinet and found a manila folder I’d never seen before.
Inside was an appraisal from a local used car dealership, a copy of Daniela’s driver’s license, and a power-of-attorney release form with a signature that supposedly belonged to my daughter.
I recognized instantly that the handwriting was a cheap forgery.
There was also an appointment card tucked inside for the following afternoon. Patricia had arranged to hand over the car before Daniela was even discharged from the hospital.
I logged onto my laptop and checked our joint family checking account. I found a $280 transaction paid to a local auto-title processing agency.
I picked up my phone and called the agency.
The manager on duty confirmed that Patricia had hired them to expedite title transfer paperwork for a private sale. However, he mentioned the transaction had stalled because they couldn’t verify the owner’s authorization.
“Sir, to be honest, there was an issue with one of the signatures,” he added.
My mouth went dry.
I drove straight to the processing office. The manager showed me the file. Patricia had submitted a forged power-of-attorney form, but the notary flagged it because the signature didn’t match Daniela’s state ID.
Then he showed me a secondary witness affidavit attached to the file.
Underneath my daughter’s forged signature was the printed name and signature of a witness:
Oscar Ramirez.
My brother-in-law. Patricia’s brother.
A man who had sat at my Thanksgiving table for twenty years. A man I had bailed out financially multiple times when his auto repair shop fell on hard times.
Why was he involved in this?
I returned home with copies of all the documents. While I waited for Patricia to come back from running errands, a thought hit me.
Months ago, we had installed a smart doorbell and security camera near the front entryway after a string of porch-pirate thefts in our neighborhood. It captured a wide view of the foyer and saved continuous footage to a cloud app.
I had completely forgotten about it.
I opened the app on my phone and pulled up the video feed from the previous afternoon.
At first, the video showed Daniela entering the front door with her backpack. Seconds later, Patricia intercepted her by the entryway console.
I couldn’t hear every word clearly, but the conflict was undeniable. My daughter tried to grab a folder out of Patricia’s hands. Patricia grabbed her by the arm. Daniela pulled away.
Then my wife shoved her with both hands.
I watched in horror as my daughter lost her balance, struck the sharp corner of the wooden console table, and collapsed motionless onto the tile floor.
I covered my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
But the recording kept playing.
Patricia stepped over, knelt beside Daniela, and reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out the car keys. Then she picked up her phone and made a call.
May you like
I turned the volume all the way up.
When I heard what she said to her brother while our daughter lay unconscious on the floor, I realized that my wife had every opportunity to help her child—and chose to do something unthinkable instead.
