Chapter 8
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” I replied. “You mentioned her tonight.”
Marcus frowned. “Who?”
“Carol Whitcomb,” I said.
Genesis’s lips parted, then closed.
It had been one sentence. One tiny slip, buried in the middle of her long performance about aging, sacrifice, and family duty.
She had said, Carol said these things are never as complicated as people make them sound.
At the time, everyone assumed Carol was a friend.
But I knew the name because Carol Whitcomb had notarized a document I had never signed.
The paramedic paused with gauze in her hand. “Ma’am, keep pressure here.”
I obeyed, though my fingers felt numb.
The officer opened the folder and scanned the first page. Her face gave nothing away, but her posture changed slightly.
Jackson shifted. “That has nothing to do with tonight.”
“It has everything to do with tonight,” I said.
His voice hardened. “Elaine.”
The warning in it was familiar. It had worked on me for years. Lower your voice. Change the subject. Smile. Don’t embarrass me.
But the warning had no place left to land.
I looked at the officer. “Three weeks ago, I received a notice from my lender about a request for payoff information on my apartment. I never requested it. When I called, they said someone claiming to represent me had asked about a transfer. Then I found out a quitclaim deed had been drafted with my name on it.”
Genesis sat down slowly, as if her legs no longer trusted her.
Jackson shook his head. “You’re confused.”
“No,” I said. “For the first time in years, I am very clear.”
The officer asked if I had filed a report.
“I met with an attorney,” I said. “We were preparing everything.”
Jackson laughed again, but it sounded thin. “Preparing? So you came here looking for a fight.”
May you like
“I came here because you told me it was your father’s birthday dinner.”
Arthur looked down.
