The phone rang twice. “This is Donald Kesler.”
The voice was measured, calm — the voice of a man who had read ten thousand documents and was surprised by none of them.
“Mr. Kesler, my name is Wendy Thomas. My grandmother—”
“Miss Thomas,” he said gently. “I’ve been trying to reach you for four months.”
He explained everything. Lillian had come to his office two years before she died and created a will — simple and clear. The house on Elm Street to Wendy Marie Thomas, solely. A trust account containing eighty-five thousand dollars to Wendy Marie Thomas, solely. No other names. No conditions.
“It was probated five months ago. The deed transfer was filed. I sent certified letters. They were returned. I called your phone. Someone told me you’d moved out of state.”
Her father. That had been her father’s voice turning away Lillian’s attorney.
“I’m in the hospital, Mr. Kesler. I’ve been in a coma for three weeks.”
A pause. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Thomas.”
“The house,” she said. “Is it still in my name?”
“Let me pull the current deed records. I’ll call you back within the hour.”
Fifty-three minutes later: “The deed was transferred out of your name three weeks ago. To Gerald Thomas. Your father. Using a power of attorney.”
She counted the drops from her IV drip. One. Two. Three.
“I never signed a power of attorney, Mr. Kesler.”
“I know you didn’t. There’s more. A mortgage was recorded against the property six days ago. Two hundred eighty thousand dollars.”
“He leveraged the house,” she said.
“He did.”
She reached for the pen on her bedside table. Her hand was steady.
“What are my options?”
“Do you want to press charges?”
“Not yet. I want to see how deep this goes first. When can you come to the hospital?”
“Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
