Joanna slammed the folder shut. “Steven was just here. He brought papers. Power of Attorney documents. He said they were ‘just in case’ I ever got sick. He was so pushy. He kept checking his watch. When I said I wanted my lawyer to read them first, he turned… nasty. He said I was being paranoid.”
“They are filing for emergency guardianship,” I told her. “They plan to use the ‘pattern of concern’ from two siblings—Natalie and Steven—to force the court’s hand. Once they have that, they freeze your assets.”
Joanna looked at me, her blue eyes blazing. “I have something they don’t know about.”
She motioned for me to follow her to the kitchen. She pointed to a small, innocent-looking smoke detector on the ceiling.
“Steven installed that last month. Said it was a new ‘smart’ detector connected to his phone so he’d know if there was a fire. But I didn’t trust it. I had my neighbor’s son, an IT specialist, look at it. It’s a camera, Marilyn. A camera with a microphone.”
I gasped. “He’s watching you?”
“He thinks he is,” Joanna smiled grimly. “But the boy hacked the feed. He blocked Steven’s access but kept the recording function running to a local server. Steven thinks it’s malfunctioning, but I have recordings of every phone call he’s made while standing in this kitchen.”
We sat at her kitchen table, two grandmothers with 140 years of life experience between us, and we listened. We heard Steven bragging to his bookie about the money coming in. We heard him discussing “the timeline” with Natalie.
“We need a lawyer,” I said. “Not a family lawyer. A shark.”
“I know just the man,” Joanna said, reaching for the phone. “James Mitchell. He hates bullies.”
We spent the next 48 hours moving in silence. We met with James Mitchell, a man with a suit that cost more than my car and eyes that missed nothing. He took the recordings. He subpoenaed financial records. He sent us to independent neurologists for comprehensive cognitive testing.
But the enemy was moving too.
On Wednesday afternoon, I was in my garden, deadheading the roses, when a car pulled up. It wasn’t Paul. It was a white SUV. Natalie stepped out, accompanied by a woman holding a clipboard.
“Marilyn!” Natalie called out, her voice dripping with artificial concern. “I’m so glad we caught you. This is Linda. She’s a… friend from the city. She helps families optimize their living situations.”
I knew exactly who Linda was. A social worker. Or perhaps a paid geriatric care manager. This was the ambush.
“How lovely,” I said, wiping dirt from my hands. “Please, come in.”
I led them into the living room. Linda sat down and immediately began scanning the room—looking for dust, for clutter, for signs of the ‘decline’ Natalie had promised her.
“Marilyn,” Natalie began, “Paul mentioned you seemed a bit… overwhelmed lately. We just want to make sure you have everything you need.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Natalie,” I said, pouring tea with a steady hand.
“Are you?” Linda asked gently. Her voice was practiced, soothing. “Natalie mentioned you took a sudden, unexplained trip to Charlottesville on Monday. You didn’t tell anyone. Driving that far alone can be risky at your age.”
The trap. If I said I went to see Joanna, they would claim I was harassing her. If I lied, they would claim I was confused.
“I went to visit a friend,” I said neutrally.
“Which friend?” Natalie pressed, her eyes hard. “Marilyn, my mother told me you were there. She said you were telling her wild stories. Making her paranoid. She’s very confused right now, and you feeding into her delusions isn’t helping.”
“Joanna seemed quite lucid to me,” I countered.
Linda scribbled furiously on her clipboard. “Defensiveness,” she muttered, barely audible. “Lack of insight.”
“Marilyn,” Linda said, looking up. “Can you tell me what year it is?”
I stared at her. The indignity of it burned. “It is 2024. It is Wednesday. And I would like you to leave my house.”
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