Chapter 4: What Had Already Been Filed
I called my attorney from the hospital parking lot.
The urgent care clinic had bandaged my thigh and documented the burn — second degree, the nurse said, in a tone that made it sound routine and devastating at the same time.
They photographed it.
They gave me a report number.
My attorney, Dana Kessler, picked up on the second ring.
"Charlotte.
What happened?"
I told her everything.
The gravy.
Zachary.
The camera footage.
And the last thing Brenda had said before the officers separated them.
You have no idea what's already been filed.
Dana was quiet for exactly three seconds.
"I'm pulling up the county recorder's database right now.
Stay on the line."
I listened to her keyboard.
A car pulled out of the space next to mine.
The afternoon felt too bright and too ordinary for what was happening inside my chest.
"Charlotte."
"Yeah."
"There's a quitclaim deed on file for your property.
Recorded six days ago."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"That's not possible.
I never signed anything."
"The signature on file reads Charlotte Anne Mercer."
That was my name.
My full legal name.
"Dana, I didn't sign it.
I have never signed a quitclaim deed."
"I know." Her voice was steady and deliberate.
"The deed transfers full ownership to a Zachary Paul Mercer.
It was notarized by a Raymond Fitch in Chula Vista."
I had never heard that name in my life.
"What does this mean?"
"It means someone forged your signature on a legal property document and had it notarized.
That is a felony.
Multiple felonies, depending on how they obtained the notary seal."
I stared through the windshield at the concrete wall of the parking structure.
"They did this before we even had the fight this morning."
"Yes."
"They were going to use it regardless of what happened today."
"That appears to be the case."
I thought about Brenda's smile.
The way she had said it.
You have no idea what's already been filed.
Not a threat.
A statement of fact.
She had been holding that card since before she walked through my door.
"What do I do?"
"You don't go home tonight.
Not until we know whether Zachary has a copy of that deed and what he intends to do with it.
Where are you right now?"
"Hospital parking lot."
"Go to your parents.
Don't tell Zachary where you are.
I'm filing an emergency motion to void the deed this afternoon, and I'm contacting the DA's office about the forgery.
But Charlotte — I need to ask you something, and I need you to think carefully."
"Okay."
"Is there anyone else involved?
The notary didn't do this alone.
Someone coordinated this.
Someone knew your full legal name, your property details, and had access to a notary willing to sign off on a fraudulent document."
I thought about the footage.
Brenda on the phone with someone whose voice I hadn't heard.
Zachary photographing my documents page by page.
"Brenda mentioned a property transfer to someone on the phone.
I don't know who she was talking to."
"I need that footage.
All of it.
Can you get it to me today?"
"Yes."
"Good.
One more thing." Dana paused.
"The notary — Raymond Fitch.
His office is in Chula Vista.
That's forty minutes from Pacific Beach.
Someone drove there.
Someone brought your documents.
Someone sat across from him and signed your name."
I already knew what she was about to say.
"We need to find out who was in that room."
I ended the call and sat in the car for a moment without moving.
Then I opened my camera app and scrolled back to the oldest files.
There were eleven clips I hadn't watched yet.
I pressed play on the first one.
The timestamp read fourteen weeks ago — two months before Zachary had ever proposed.
Brenda was in my apartment again.
Alone this time.
And she was on the phone again.
But this time, the call was on speaker, and the voice on the other end was a man's voice I did not recognize.
"Does she have any family who would contest it?"
"Her parents are retired.
They won't know what hit them."
"And the girl?"
Brenda glanced toward the camera without seeing it.
"She trusts him completely.
That's all we needed."
The clip ended.
My parents.
May you like
They had factored in my parents.
I called my mother before I had even put the car in reverse.
