I told her about Ashley's red dress, the anniversary reservation, and the way Ryan had looked at me at the aircraft door. I told her about the forged signature, Daniel's four months of unanswered questions, and the loan that had been stopped before the money could move. I told her what Detective Ramirez had said about the investigation and what Camila Reyes intended to do about the property. My mother listened without interrupting, except to ask whether I wanted more soup.
When I finished, she folded her napkin and set it beside her plate. "He asked me about the land two months ago," she said.
I looked up. "What?"
"He came by after you left for Chicago. He said the company had an opportunity to build a small development nearby, and he wanted to know whether I'd ever considered moving into something easier to maintain. He talked about senior communities, places with gardens and security."
I felt a cold unease. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him I could still walk to my own mailbox, thank you very much. And I told him the house wasn't his decision."
Despite everything, I almost laughed. That was precisely how my mother would have answered an unwanted sales pitch from a man she didn't particularly trust. She had always been courteous to Ryan because he was my husband, but she had never mistaken his business success for superior judgment. "Did he ask you to sign anything?" I said.
"No. He asked whether I still had the old survey and my copy of the estate papers. I told him he could ask you."
I closed my eyes. Ryan had been searching for ways around my refusal long before I knew a formal document existed. I thought about all the times he had visited my mother with flowers or groceries, presenting himself as an attentive son-in-law. Some of those visits might have been sincere, but I could no longer pretend his questions about her home had been innocent.
My mother reached across the table and put her hand over mine. "Valerie, listen to me. Whatever he tried to do, the responsibility belongs to him. You didn't cause it by trusting your husband."
I wanted to believe her. Yet I remembered the first bank envelope, the way I had allowed Ryan to take it because arguing would have turned our evening unpleasant. I remembered every small moment when I had accepted his explanation because I preferred uncertainty to conflict. It would take time before I understood that recognizing missed warning signs was not the same thing as sharing the blame for someone else's deliberate act.
"What if we lose the house?" I whispered.
She glanced toward the window where the pecan branches moved in the wind. "Then we deal with that possibility honestly. But we are not going to give him the property in our minds before a court or a bank has determined anything. Your father didn't spend his life repairing aircraft so we'd fall apart over a piece of paper."
"He would have been furious."
"With Ryan," she said firmly. "Not with you."