He rewound a little bit back, freezing the image at the moment when the car was visible best of all. “Here is the license plate. Hard to see because of the snow and darkness, but I think we can try to make out a few numbers. And here… look on the side door of the car. That looks like a logo of some company. Writing.”
I squinted, staring intensely at the blurred, fuzzy image on the screen. On the side of the car, there was indeed something light painted—some large inscription, an emblem.
“Looks very much like a company car,” the officer muttered thoughtfully, leaning in closer. “Definitely not a private owner. Some organization, a serious firm.”
“Or maybe it is appraisers from a real estate agency,” Mrs. Higgins suddenly piped up. She had been standing nearby all this time, watching intently with both hands pressed to her ample chest.
“But… from a realtor agency?” I turned sharply to the neighbor, my brow furrowing. “What appraisers, Maria? Why appraisers at all?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. Maybe someone is planning to sell the house, doing an appraisal?” The neighbor hesitated, looking embarrassed. “Just last month, an appraiser from an agency came to me when I was looking at and buying my daughter’s apartment in the city. So, he also arrived late in the evening. He had no time during the day. He was in exactly the same kind of company car, with a big, bright agency logo on the door. It just seemed very similar to me.”
The officer magnified the image of the car on the screen even more, pushing the resolution to its limit. The writing on the side door was very hard to read due to distance and darkness, blurred into a smudge, but the first word could still be distinguished.
It seemed to be Hearth.
“Hearth… something else,” Gareth muttered. He quickly wrote this down in his notebook, underlining it twice. “We definitely need to check all the real estate agencies in our city and county urgently. Find out who exactly has such company cars with similar markings.”
I was silent, finding no words. One insane, simply incredible thought was spinning in my head, making me feel physically sick. An appraiser from a real estate agency came to inspect my house at night.
But who could have called this appraiser? The house was titled strictly to me. It was entirely in my name. I had never given anyone any permissions, any power of attorney. I wasn’t planning to sell anything at all. This was my only home.
“Mrs. Vance.” Gareth Purnell gently but firmly placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, snapping me back to reality. “Did you by chance give anyone an official, notarized power of attorney for your house? For a sale, for signing any documents, deals?”
“No, of course not.” I shook my head resolutely. “I didn’t even think about any sale. This is my home. I have lived here my whole life.”
“And your husband… Vernon. Could he?”
I felt the ground go out from under my feet. I froze. Vernon.
“But he cannot do anything at all without my knowledge and consent,” I stammered. “The house is fully titled strictly to me. In my name.”
“Theoretically, he really cannot and should not,” the officer conceded, his face grim. “But in practice, unfortunately, all sorts of unpleasant situations happen. Fraud, forgery of signatures and documents.”
He closed his notebook with a snap. “Let us definitely check the real estate agencies in all districts. If it really was an appraiser from some agency, we will find out thoroughly who exactly ordered this night assessment of your house.”
By lunchtime, we were sitting in the plush office of Hearthstone Realty, located in the city center.
Gareth Purnell had found three agencies with similar logos in the vehicle database and called them one by one. And in the third one, they confirmed it: yes, their appraiser went out to Chestnut Street yesterday evening.
The agency director, Isaac Graves, a man of about forty in an expensive, slightly shiny suit, met us with a feigned politeness that poorly concealed his nervousness.
“Please have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the leather chairs in front of his polished mahogany desk. “How can I help?”
“Yesterday, your employee went to the address 17 Chestnut Street,” Purnell began, taking out his badge and placing it on the desk. “Appraised a house. We would like to know the details.”
“Chestnut 17.” Graves frowned, opened a thick folder on his desk, and leafed through the papers. “Yes, correct. Order for an appraisal of a private house with a lot. What is the problem?”
“The problem is,” I leaned forward, trying to speak calmly though my hands were shaking in my lap, “that this house is mine. And I did not call anyone for an appraisal.”
The director raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely confused. “How is that? The order is filed in the owner’s name. Look here.”
He turned the folder around and showed a document.
Client: Vance, Vernon Michael.
Owner: Vance, Alara.
“There is a power of attorney from the owner,” Graves said, tapping the paper.
“What power of attorney?” My voice broke, cracking under the strain. “I gave no power of attorney.”
Graves blinked in confusion, dug into the folder again, and took out another sheet. “Here, please. Power of attorney from Vance… authorized spouse to represent interests in real estate transactions. Notarized.”
He held out the document. I grabbed the sheet, drilling into it with my eyes. My name, my passport data, my address—everything was correct.
And at the bottom, a signature.
My signature.
But I hadn’t signed this. Never. The loops were slightly wrong, the slant a little too sharp.
“It is a forgery,” I whispered, feeling the room swim before my eyes. “I did not sign this.”
Officer Purnell took the document from me, studying it carefully under the office light. “Mr. Graves, when was this power of attorney brought to you?”
“A week ago,” Graves replied, his voice losing some of its confidence. “Vernon Vance came in person. Said he wanted to sell the house, asked to conduct an appraisal. We processed everything, agreed on a site visit. He said his wife was aware, she just had no time to deal with it. Trusted him.”
“And you did not check the authenticity of the power of attorney?” The officer looked at the director with a heavy, accusatory gaze.
“It has a notary seal, everything as required,” Graves squirmed in his chair, loosening his tie slightly. “We are not required to verify every power of attorney through the notary board. That is not our job.”
“Show me all correspondence with the client,” Purnell cut him off. “Everything you have. Documents, contracts, emails.”
The director nodded, swallowed hard, and turned to his computer. I sat staring at one spot on the carpet. My head buzzed like a hive of angry bees.
Vernon. My husband. He forged my signature. He wanted to sell the house—our house—without saying a word to me.
“Look here,” Graves turned the monitor so we could see. “First contact two weeks ago. He emailed, asked about appraisal and sale of a house. We set up a meeting. He came, brought documents. We drew up a contract for appraisal.”
“The appraiser went out, inspected the house. At night,” I inserted dully. “At eleven at night, while I was sleeping, he walked around the house, peered into windows.”
“Well, the client requested evening time specifically,” Graves spread his hands defensively. “Said someone is there during the day and he needed it to be unnoticed. We don’t refuse clients if the request doesn’t break the law.”
“And the fact that you are working with forged documents, that does not break the law?” Officer Purnell slammed his palm on the table, making the stapler jump.
“I didn’t know the documents were forged!” Graves went pale. “I swear, everything looked legal.”
“What happened next?” The officer nodded at the monitor. “After the appraisal.”
“After the appraisal, we compiled a report. The house was valued at four hundred twenty thousand dollars.”