Chapter 2 - THE POWER OF ATTORNEY I NEVER SIGNED
I did not walk downstairs.
Every part of me wanted to.
I wanted to cross the patio, take my brother by the collar, rip my watch from his wrist, and ask my mother how she had looked at herself in the mirror after putting her hands on Maya.
But anger is useful only until it begins making decisions for you.
Six months overseas had taught me that much.
Maya was still shaking.
So I stayed.
I sat beside her until her breathing slowed, then asked the question I should have asked the moment I came home.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes filled again.
“I tried.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“Calls. Emails. Your unit support office.”
“I never got anything.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the bedroom door.
“Victoria always knew when I tried.”
I followed her gaze.
“My mother?”
Maya nodded.
“She said Julian had power of attorney while you were deployed.”
I stared.
“No.”
“What?”
“I never gave him one.”
She swallowed.
“They showed me paperwork.”
“Show me.”
Maya climbed slowly from bed.
Every movement hurt.
That made my anger colder.
She opened the back of our closet and removed a canvas grocery bag hidden beneath winter boots.
Inside were copies.
Not originals.
She had been smart enough to photograph and print what she could before Victoria started checking her phone.
The first page was a durable power of attorney.
My name.
My supposed signature.
Julian named as agent.
Date:
Three days after I deployed.
I stared at the signature.
Good forgery.
Not perfect.
I knew exactly why.
My capital D always leaned backward slightly.
This one didn't.
“Fake,” I said.
Maya looked at me.
“You're sure?”
“I have never signed this.”
Her shoulders sagged.
Part relief.
Part horror.
Because if I hadn't signed it, everything that followed became something else.
Fraud.
Forgery.
Conspiracy.
Possibly worse.
I flipped to the next pages.
Corporate resolutions transferring majority voting control of Mercer Freight Solutions—the company Maya and I had started eight years earlier—to a new holding company.
JM Strategic Holdings LLC.
Managing member:
Julian Mercer.
My brother had named the theft after himself.
I almost admired the arrogance.
Almost.
The next document transferred our family property in Loudoun County.
Thirty-two acres inherited from my grandfather.
The farmhouse where my father grew up.
The land Maya wanted to someday turn into a distribution training center for veterans.
Transferred for:
$10.
I laughed.
Maya flinched.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
She looked frightened.
“I'm laughing because they're idiots.”
She stared.
“They thought documents make ownership disappear.”
I turned another page.
“They don't.”
Not automatically.
Not when signatures were forged.
Not when authority was fabricated.
Not when coercion could be proven.
But proof mattered.
I looked at Maya's injuries.
“Did you photograph these?”
She shook her head.
“Victoria took my phone.”
“We'll do it tomorrow. Hospital.”
Her face changed immediately.
“No.”
“Maya.”
“No hospital.”
“Why?”
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Julian knows people.”
“Who?”
“At St. Catherine's.”
Our local hospital.
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of people?”
“He took me there once.”
“When?”
“After I fell.”
The way she said fell told me she had not fallen.
“Who treated you?”
“Dr. Mason Cole.”
I knew the name.
Family friend.
Victoria had gone to charity galas with his wife for years.
“What happened?”
“He documented everything as an accident.”
I went still.
“Did you tell him?”
“I tried.”
“What did he say?”
Maya looked away.
“He said stress can make memories unreliable.”
I closed my eyes.
Not just violence.
They had built witnesses around it.
“Tomorrow we go somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“Walter Reed isn't appropriate unless—”
“No.”
I thought.
Then remembered someone.
Dr. Elena Ward.
Former Army physician.
Now ran a private trauma clinic in Arlington.
She had treated one of my soldiers' wives after a domestic violence incident.
She trusted records more than families.
Good.
I texted her.
Need confidential exam tomorrow. Civilian spouse. Possible assault. No local hospital.
She replied thirty seconds later.
8:00 a.m. Bring ID. Bring anything she was forced to sign.
I put the phone down.
Maya stared.
“Daniel.”
“Yeah?”
“Don't tell them you know.”
I looked toward the window.
Victoria and Julian were still laughing downstairs.
Music now.
My brother was playing something from my father's old record collection.
“They think I believe you're unstable.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Maya frowned.
“Good?”
“For tonight.”
She understood.
A plan needed them comfortable.
The next morning I went downstairs smiling.
Victoria sat at the breakfast table.
Julian wore another one of my shirts.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Like the dead.”
Mother poured coffee.
“How's Maya?”
I shrugged.
“Emotional.”
Victoria smiled.
Too quickly.
“I told you.”
Julian leaned back.
“You need to be careful. She made some strange financial decisions while you were gone.”
I looked at him.
“Like what?”
He enjoyed explaining.
That told me everything.
“She got overwhelmed. Company cash flow got messy. Property taxes. Vendor disputes.”
“So?”
“I stepped in.”
“How?”
He spread his hands.
“Protected the family.”
Behind him, Maya entered.
Long sleeves.
Neutral face.
I forced myself not to look at her bruises.
Victoria said:
“Your wife should be grateful Julian saved your business.”
Maya's eyes found mine.
Only for a second.
I said:
“Maybe I owe you.”
Julian smiled.
“You probably do.”
May you like
I smiled back.
He had no idea how much that sentence would eventually cost him.
