I gasped softly. Four hundred twenty thousand.
“Vance agreed to this amount,” Graves continued, clicking his mouse. “Asked to find a buyer. We posted a listing.”
“When?” I interrupted.
“This morning.”
“And…?”
“And a buyer has already responded. A serious man, ready to pay cash immediately. We set up a meeting for the day after tomorrow to sign the preliminary contract.”
I covered my face with my hands.
The day after tomorrow.
Two more days. That was it. In two days, the house would have been sold. Her home, where she had lived for thirty-plus years, would have been gone.
“Where is this buyer now?” asked Officer Purnell.
“I don’t know. He called, left a number, said the money is ready, interested in a quick deal.”
“I see.” The officer wrote down the phone number. “Mr. Graves, the deal will have to be canceled. Immediately. A criminal case is being opened regarding fraud and forgery of documents.”
“But… but we have nothing to do with it!” Graves jumped up. “We worked in good faith. We were deceived.”
“We will sort it out,” Purnell said grimly. “For now, give me all documents, copies of correspondence, and your appraiser’s contact info. Now.”
Half an hour later, we walked out of the agency and into the biting wind. I was moving like a sleepwalker, putting one foot in front of the other without really feeling the pavement beneath my soles. The world had tilted on its axis, and I couldn’t quite find my balance. Gareth Purnell gently supported me by the elbow, guiding me away from the glass doors of Hearthstone Realty.
“Mrs. Vance, you need to sit down,” he said, his voice cutting through the fog in my brain. “There’s a diner over there. Let’s go in.”
We sat at a small, Formica-topped table by the window. The diner smelled of frying bacon and old coffee—a comforting, grounded scent. The officer ordered me a tea with plenty of sugar and a black coffee for himself.
I wrapped my hands around the hot ceramic mug, desperate for warmth, but I couldn’t get warm. The cold wasn’t on my skin anymore; it was deep inside, settled in my marrow, icy and piercing.
“Why?” I whispered, staring into the dark amber liquid. “Why would he do that? Thirty-two years, Gareth. We’ve been together thirty-two years.”
Purnell sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of all the bad things he’d seen on the job. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Money, Mrs. Vance. Four hundred thousand is no small sum. Apparently, he needed it urgently, or maybe he just decided to start a new life with a clean slate.”
He paused, looking at me with sad, kind eyes. “It happens. People change. Or maybe… they just finally show their true face.”
“But this… this is betrayal,” I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “I have cooked for him. I have washed his clothes. I have waited for him.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t blame yourself for someone else’s darkness.”
I took a sip of the tea. The hot, sweet liquid hit my stomach and seemed to revive me a little, clearing the edges of my thoughts.
“What do I do now?” I asked, my voice steadying.
“Now,” Purnell said, setting his cup down with a clink, “we go to the station. You will write a statement. I already called ahead; they’re opening a file. We will summon your husband for questioning. We will order a handwriting analysis on the signature and check the notary. If we prove forgery—and we will prove it—he faces prison time. This is fraud on a large scale.”
“Prison,” I repeated. It was a strange, alien word to associate with Vernon. My husband, the man I shared a bed with for half my life, could go to prison.
“And the house?” I asked, a sudden panic rising. “Will it stay mine?”
“Of course,” Purnell reassured me instantly. “The deal is invalid. The documents are fake. The house is yours, and no one will take it away.”
I nodded, feeling the first brick of my new reality settle into place.
We spent several hours at the police station. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I wrote my statement, explaining, answering questions, reliving the betrayal line by line. Officer Purnell described the footprints in detail, the camera recording from Mrs. Higgins, and the visit to the agency.
The detective handling the case was a young woman with a tired, drawn face who looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. She wrote everything down meticulously, nodding as I spoke.
“We will summon your husband with a subpoena,” she said at the end, closing the file.
“When does he return from his trip?”
“He should be back in a week,” I said. “But I can call him. Tell him to come back sooner.”
“No,” the detective shook her head sharply. “Do not warn him. Let him think everything is going according to plan. It will be simpler to detain him that way. If he knows we’re onto him, he might run.”
I agreed, feeling a strange mix of guilt and vindication.
We walked out onto the street. It was already getting dark; December days were cruel and short. Gareth walked me to the bus stop.
“You hold on,” he said in parting, his breath clouding in the freezing air. “I know it’s hard right now, but you did the right thing. You cannot let things like this slide.”
“Thank you,” I said, shaking his large, gloved hand. “If not for you…”
“Come on, it’s my job.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You should say thank you to that old lady who warned you about the snow. Miracles, honestly.”
I sat on the bus, leaning my forehead against the cold glass as the city lights blurred past.
The old lady.
How did she know? I remembered her eyes—piercing, seeing right through my skin—her dry fingers digging into my sleeve, her urgent whisper. When your husband leaves, do not touch the snow.