Maya emailed the documents through a secure portal. I read them at the hotel desk while Liam paced behind me. The deed conveyed the beach house from me to Mercer Coastal Holdings LLC.
The recording information was real. The signature was not mine.
The notarization used Marissa Cole’s stolen seal. Then came the second document.
A deed of trust. Mercer Coastal Holdings LLC had borrowed against the property. My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
Liam leaned over.
“One hundred eighty thousand.”
The lender was a private real-estate finance company. The loan had been made five months earlier.
After the fraudulent transfer. Before Liam moved out. “What did they do with the money?”
Maya answered that later.
“We need bank discovery for the full trail. For now, know this: the property has a recorded lien.”
I sat down. I had purchased the house outright to give Liam security.
Someone had used it as collateral. “Can they foreclose?”
“If the loan defaults, the lender could try.”
“Try?”
“If the underlying title transfer is fraudulent, their security interest becomes complicated. But do not assume the lender is at fault.
They may be another victim.” Again, evidence first.
Maya filed an emergency notice with the lender disputing title and requested that no enforcement action proceed without review. She also contacted the county register of deeds and law enforcement. The stolen notary seal mattered. Marissa Cole’s old police report mattered more.
A forged notarization connected the transfer to an already-documented theft. By noon, we were sitting in Maya’s office. She was younger than I expected.
Forties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back.
No wasted movement. Liam placed the notebook in front of her.
She did not touch it immediately.
“Tell me what this is.”
“My timeline.”
“Original?”
“Yes.”
“When did you begin it?”
“After the tax notice.”
“Did anyone else write in it?”
“No.”
“Any pages removed?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She photographed the cover and first page. Then she read. Not every detail.
Enough.
When she reached the white sedan entries, her expression changed.
“Derek Walsh.”
“You know him?”
I asked. “By reputation.”
“Good or bad?”
“Neither.
He’s licensed. He does domestic work, insurance investigations, background work.”
“Could Chloe have hired him?”
“Yes.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t know.”
Liam exhaled. That answer had become our unofficial family motto. Maya picked up her phone. “I’m calling him.”
Liam stared.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Is that safe?”
“For me, yes.”
She dialed. Put it on speaker only after introducing herself and getting consent to discuss a matter generally.
“Mr. Walsh, I represent Sarah Mercer and her son Liam.” Silence. Then a man’s voice.
“I know who Liam is.”
My skin prickled. Maya continued. “Were you retained to surveil him?”
Another pause.
“I was retained to conduct an occupancy and asset-location investigation.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not authorized to disclose client identity without consent or process.”
Maya did not argue. “Did your work involve Liam Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Did you follow him from his restaurant?”
“I conducted mobile surveillance.”
Liam closed his eyes. “Did you attempt access to his email or online accounts?” “No.” The answer came quickly. “Did you enter the beach property at any time?” “No.”
“Did you retrieve documents from Liam’s room?”
“No.”
“Did you communicate with him anonymously?”
“No.”
Maya wrote.
“Did your client ask you to determine where Liam was staying after he left the property?”
“Yes.”
I stood. Maya raised one hand.
“Did you do so?”
“Yes.”
“Did you provide the address?”
“I provided a report.”
“To your client.”
“Yes.”
That meant someone knew exactly where Liam’s rundown apartment was. No wonder he felt watched.
Maya asked one more question. “Did your client tell you why they wanted his location?” Derek hesitated. “Potential property dispute.”
“Did they tell you Sarah Mercer had transferred the beach house?”
“Yes.”
“Did you verify that?”
“I verified the public record.”
Not the signature. Not the authenticity. Public record. Maya thanked him and ended the call.
Liam looked pale. “They knew where I lived.” “Yes.”
“Who?”
“We still don’t know.”
Maya corrected herself. “We don’t know from him voluntarily.”
She drafted a preservation letter to Derek’s company. No destruction of reports, invoices, emails, notes, photographs, or client communications related to Liam or the beach house. Then she turned back to me.
“Now we deal with possession.”
“What can I do?”
“First, written demand.”
“To Chloe?”
“To everyone occupying the property.”
She asked me to list the people I had seen. Chloe. Richard. Helen.
Two children. David had not been there.
“Any evidence they pay rent?”
“No.”
“Lease?”
“No.”
“Permission from you?”
“No.”
She drafted a notice stating that I disputed the recorded transfer as fraudulent, that no occupant had permission from me to possess the property, and that they were not to remove, destroy, or alter documents or fixtures.
“Will that make them leave?”
“Maybe not.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because clarity matters.”
I thought of Liam’s notebook. Of Marissa’s stolen seal report. Of my original deed.
Clarity. Records. Maya also requested a temporary restraining order preventing further transfer or encumbrance of the property while title was litigated.
By late afternoon, the lender’s attorney called.
They had opened a fraud review. They wanted proof I was not in North Carolina on the deed date.
That part was easy. My passport.
Airline itinerary. Hotel receipt. Credit-card charges in Vancouver.
A work conference badge.
Photographs with timestamps. I had been more than two thousand miles away.
“Could someone have signed for me remotely?”
Liam asked. Maya shook her head. “Not this document as notarized.
It claims Sarah appeared in person before Marissa Cole in North Carolina.” I almost laughed.
The lie was collapsing under geography. Then Maya’s investigator arrived.
His name was Anthony Perez. He had already pulled the LLC filing.
Mercer Coastal Holdings had been created nine months earlier. One month before the fraudulent deed. Registered agent: Richard Mercer.
Manager:
Richard Mercer. Mailing address: David’s office. I stared at the page.
Grandfather and father.
Together. “What does the company do?” Anthony shrugged.
“On paper?
Real-estate holding.”
“What real estate?”
“So far, your beach house is the only property I found.”
Liam sat very still. Then Anthony placed another document on the table. The loan application. Not the whole file.
A public UCC-related reference and broker summary he had found in a court database. It listed the purpose of funds. Property renovation and family investment.
I looked at Liam. Nothing had been renovated.
Then I noticed a line. Borrower contact.
David Mercer. I felt something inside me settle. Not calm.
Direction.
Richard owned the company. David handled the loan.
Chloe lived in the house. Derek Walsh had been hired to locate Liam.
These were no longer disconnected oddities. There was structure. Maya saw my face.
“Do not call David.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Don’t.”
She looked toward Liam.
“Neither of you.”
Then my phone rang. David. We all stared at the screen.
Liam whispered, “How does he know?”
Maya held out her hand. “Answer.” I did.
“Hello?”
David’s voice was calm. Too calm. “Sarah, I heard you’re in Wilmington.”
I looked at Maya.
She nodded for me to continue. “You heard correctly.”
“You went to see Liam.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You need to stop scaring him.”
My grip tightened.
“I’m scaring him?”
“He’s been unstable for weeks.”
Liam’s face changed.
David continued. “He’s convinced people are following him.
He’s been obsessing over property records. Chloe says he barely sleeps.”
I looked at my son. He went pale. David was building a story.
Not just about the house.
About Liam.
“What do you want?”
I asked. “To fix this before it gets worse.”
“How?”
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Your beach house.”
I almost laughed.
“My beach house?”
Another pause. “Yes.” That one word told me he still needed me to believe the original lie was negotiable.
I looked at Maya. She wrote on a pad. Agree.
Do not go alone. I answered.
“Tomorrow.”
David exhaled. “Good.” Then he added something that made Liam sit upright. “Bring the black notebook.”
