“First, the county courthouse.”
That got my attention immediately.
Once we were back on the highway, she opened her purse and handed me a folded bank statement.
Three withdrawals had been circled in red.
Twelve thousand dollars.
Eighteen thousand.
Twenty-five thousand.
All taken within six weeks.
“Your father has power of attorney,” she explained.
“Temporary.
I signed it after my knee surgery because I trusted him.”
My stomach tightened.
“He told me I was starting to become forgetful.
He said I needed help handling the bills.” She stared out the window.
“Then yesterday, I found this.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said the money was being used to pay for my care.”
I glanced toward the lone suitcase sitting in the back seat.
Grandma let out a humorless laugh.
“At lunch today, your mother told me we were stopping somewhere that had a lovely garden.
They walked me into that facility, finished none of the paperwork, and vanished.”
My phone buzzed.
Dad.
Grandma reached over and turned it face down on the console.
“Courthouse first,” she repeated.
“Then the bank.
Then there’s one more place.”
“What place?”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“My house.”
I swallowed hard.
“Why?”
“Because if they’ve done what I think they’ve done, your parents didn’t just leave me there today.”
She reached inside her coat and pulled out a small envelope.
Across the front, written in my grandfather’s handwriting, were two words: HOUSE DEED.
“I hid this before they came to pick me up,” she said.
“I wanted to know whether they would go looking for it.”
We pulled into the courthouse parking lot just after two o’clock.
Grandma Eleanor didn’t wait for me.
She was already pushing through the front door before I’d turned off the engine.
The clerk at the records desk looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to see any property transfers filed on my address in the last sixty days,” Grandma said.
She placed her ID on the counter with a steady hand.
The clerk typed.
Waited.
Then her expression shifted — just slightly.
“Ma’am…
there’s a transfer filed here eleven days ago.”
Grandma didn’t flinch.
“Whose name is on it?”
The clerk turned the screen toward her.
I leaned in and read it.
Arthur Sterling.
My father.
“He transferred it to himself?” I said.
“As power of attorney,” the clerk said quietly.
“It was notarized.”
Grandma stood completely still for a long moment.
Then she opened her purse and placed a second document on the counter — one I hadn’t seen before.
“Then can you tell me,” she said, “why I signed this the same morning?”
It was a revocation.
Signed, witnessed, and dated three days before the transfer went through.
The clerk’s face went pale.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was a number I didn’t recognize.
I answered.
“Ivan.” A woman’s voice.
Careful.
Nervous.
“My name is Patricia.
I stepped away from the courthouse counter and lowered my voice.
“Patricia, what did you see?”
“A moving truck,” she said.
“A big one.
Backed right up to Eleanor’s front door.
Two men were carrying things out — furniture, boxes, lamps.
I thought maybe Eleanor had arranged it herself, but then I saw your father directing them from the porch.”
I turned toward Grandma.
She was still standing at the counter, watching me.
“How long were they there?” I asked.
“Three hours, maybe more.
They left around noon.” Patricia paused.
“Ivan, they took the dining room set.
