The second document was not another transfer form.
It was a loan-disbursement instruction secured against my apartment.
My apartment number appeared at the top.
My forged signature appeared at the bottom.
Between them was a sum large enough to erase years of Thomas’s private debts and leave him with cash to spare.
The money was scheduled to be released in three days.
I read the receiving account name twice before I trusted my eyes.
Thomas Higgins.
Mrs.
Higgins moved toward the desk.
“Give me that.”
I stepped back and held the folder against my chest.
The building manager raised one hand.
“Ma’am, do not touch the documents.”
“They belong to my son.”
“They were found inside Alice’s apartment,” he said, “and they appear to concern Alice’s property.”
Mrs.
Higgins’s face tightened.
A moment earlier she had been wearing my robe like a crown.
Now she clutched the belt closed with both hands.
I looked through the remaining pages.
There was a copy of my driver’s license.
A forged authorization permitting Thomas to speak to the lender for me.
A statement claiming I was temporarily unable to attend meetings because I was caring for an ill parent.
Someone had even copied the exact dates of my father’s surgery and recovery.
Thomas had not merely taken advantage of my absence.
He had planned around it.
At the back of the folder, beneath the loan papers, was a draft petition for divorce.
It accused me of abandoning the marital home and withholding financial support from my husband.
A yellow note was attached to the first page in Thomas’s handwriting.
File after funds clear.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The security officer shifted closer to the doorway.
The building manager opened the ownership binder on my desk and compared the recorded deed with the transfer form in my hands.
“This signature was never submitted to our office,” he said.
“We were asked to replace the lock and add Thomas as the primary resident, but I refused without written confirmation from you.”
Mrs.
Higgins stared at him.
“Thomas said you approved it.”
“I approved a temporary replacement key for a resident spouse after he reported his key lost.
I did not approve an ownership transfer.”
I remembered Thomas calling me during my first week in Pine Valley.
He had sounded distracted.
He said he had misplaced his keys and asked me to confirm my date of birth because the building office was being difficult.
I had laughed and given it to him.
That small memory now felt like a door locking behind me.
“How did she get in?” I asked.
The manager turned to the access log.
“Thomas used the replacement key to bring her into the building six weeks ago.
She has been entering under his authorization.”
“Six weeks?”
Mrs.
Higgins lifted her chin.
“My lease ended.
My son needed me.”
“Your lease ended two weeks after I left.”
