I Installed ADT Security in My New House Without Telling Anyone – First Night There, the Alarm Triggered

The Paper Trail

I didn’t sleep Wednesday night either. Instead, I sat at Thomas’s old desk, the one I’d insisted the movers bring from Portland, and spread out every document from that manila folder. The trust agreement, property deeds, transfer documents, bank statements showing payments for a property I’d never known existed—all dated 8 years ago.

All bearing signatures that looked exactly like mine and Thomas’s. But we’d never signed these papers. I would have remembered purchasing a beach house; we’d talked about it endlessly, but never pulled the trigger.

Thomas always said we’d wait until his practice slowed down, until we’d saved just a bit more. So how had someone created such perfect forgeries?

I photographed every page with my phone, saved them to a cloud storage account I’d created years ago but rarely used. Then I hid the originals inside my grandmother’s old recipe box, tucked between cards for her famous lemon cake and pot roast. Nobody would think to look there.

Thursday morning, I called my lawyer, or rather, the lawyer who’d handled our wills. Martin Whitaker had worked with Thomas for 20 years, a solid man with a reputation for honesty. His secretary said he was in court all day but could see me Friday at 2:00.

“It’s somewhat urgent,” I told her. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Norton?” “I’m not sure yet. That’s what I need to find out.”

After hanging up, I made coffee and stood at my kitchen window watching the tide come in. The beach was empty except for a man walking a golden retriever—normal, peaceful, nothing like the churning in my stomach.

My phone buzzed with a text from Rebecca: Thinking of you. Michael and I are so excited for this weekend. Need us to bring anything? I stared at the message. She’d been in my house Tuesday night, I was certain.

But why? What had she been looking for? And more importantly, had she found it?

Just yourselves, I typed back. See you Saturday.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: Actually, I was thinking maybe we should come today instead. I have a free afternoon and I’d love to help you unpack. Plus, we could grab an early dinner in town.

My heart rate kicked up. She wanted to come now, before I could meet with Martin Whitaker, before I could make sense of these documents.

That’s sweet, but I’m actually heading to Portland for a doctor’s appointment, I lied. Won’t be back until late. Saturday is better, a longer pause this time.

Then: Doctor? Is everything okay? Just routine. Nothing to worry about. Okay. See you Saturday. Love you.

I sat down the phone with shaking hands. I’d never lied easily, not in 70 years, but something about Rebecca’s eagerness felt wrong—predatory even.

By 10:00, I’d decided I couldn’t wait until Friday to start digging. I drove into Seabrook proper, really just a main street with a grocery store, post office, and cluster of small businesses.

The county recorder’s office was housed in a pale blue building that also contained the library. The clerk, a woman in her 50s with kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a bun, looked up as I entered. “Help you find something?” “I hope so. I need to look up the ownership history for a property.”

I gave her my beach house address. She typed into her computer, fingers flying across the keys. “Okay, let me pull that up. You’re the new owner, right? I processed that transfer last month.”

“Yes, but I’m curious about the previous ownership.” Her eyes scanned the screen. “Let’s see. You purchased from Coastal Realty Trust Corporation. Before that, the property was held by—huh.”

“What? Well, according to this, the Coastal Realty Trust Corporation acquired it 8 years ago from a Norton Family Trust.” She looked up at me. “Any relation?”

My mouth went dry. “That’s—that’s my last name.” “Small world,” she smiled. “Want me to pull the deed records?”

“Please.” She disappeared into a back room and returned with a folder containing photocopies. I spread them on the counter, my hands trembling slightly.

There it was. 8 years ago, Thomas and Dorothy Norton had transferred ownership of the beach house to the Norton Family Trust. 2 years later, the trust had sold it to Coastal Realty Trust Corporation.

Then last month, I’d purchased it from that corporation. We’d owned this house, then we’d sold it, then I’d bought it back—except I had no memory of any of it.

“Ma’am, you okay? You look pale.” “I’m fine. Could I get copies of all of these?” “Sure thing. Give me a few minutes.”

While she worked, I stepped outside to catch my breath. The spring air was crisp, tinged with salt. A few locals passed by, nodding politely.

Everything looked so normal, but nothing was normal. My phone rang. “Michael?”

“Hey Mom. Rebecca told me about your doctor’s appointment. Why didn’t you mention it? Is something wrong?” I closed my eyes. Of course Rebecca had told him.

“It’s nothing, dear, just a checkup.” “At your age, you should tell us about these things. We worry.” “I know you do,” I kept my voice steady. “But I’m fine, really.”

“Okay, well listen. I actually wanted to ask you something. That house in Portland—have you thought any more about what Rebecca suggested about possibly selling?”

There it was: the real reason for the call. “Michael, I’ve told you I’m not ready to sell your father’s house.”

“I know, I know. But Mom, be practical. You’re living at the beach now. That’s a lot of property to maintain from 2 hours away. And the market is really strong right now. Rebecca’s been doing some research, and she thinks we could get—”

“We?” The word came out sharper than I intended. A pause. “Well, eventually it’ll be mine anyway, right? I’m just trying to help you make smart decisions while you can still—”

“While I still have my faculties?” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “I’m 70, not senile.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His tone shifted, became placating. “I’m just saying Rebecca has a good head for these things. She’s been looking into your finances and she thinks—”

“She’s been looking into my finances?” Ice flooded my veins. “I didn’t give her permission to do that.”

“Mom, calm down. She’s family. She’s only trying to help. You know you’re not great with numbers and since Dad died—”

“Your father taught me everything I needed to know about our finances.” My voice shook now, but not from fear—from anger. “And I certainly don’t need Rebecca poking through my private affairs.”

Silence on the other end. Then carefully: “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You sound stressed. Maybe living alone isn’t—” “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll see you Saturday.”

I hung up before he could respond. My hands were trembling. Rebecca had been looking into my finances—how? Through what right?

And more importantly, what had she found? The clerk emerged with my copies. I paid and drove back to the beach house, my mind spinning.

Once inside, I locked every door and window, then pulled out my bank statements, investment accounts, everything Thomas had left organized in his filing cabinet back in Portland. But I didn’t have those files here.

They were all in Portland, in Thomas’s study, where Rebecca could access them if she wanted, if she and Michael went to the house while I was away. I called my neighbor in Portland, Mrs. Kowalski. She’d lived next door for 15 years.

“Dorothy, how’s the beach treating you?” “Wonderful, Margaret. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Could you keep an eye on my house this week? I’m worried about break-ins.”

“Of course, dear, though this is such a safe neighborhood.” “I know. I’m probably being silly, but if you see anyone there—even Michael—would you mind calling me?”

“Michael? Your son?” “Yes. He’s been talking about checking on things, but I’d rather be there when he does. Old mother paranoia,” I forced a laugh.

“I understand completely. I’ll keep watch.” After hanging up, I spent the rest of Thursday afternoon going through Thomas’s other boxes, searching for anything else that seemed out of place.

I found old tax returns, client files from his accounting practice, birthday cards I’d saved over the years. And then, tucked inside a folder labeled Personal 1994, I found a letter.

It was addressed to Thomas, postmarked 12 years ago, from a law firm in Seattle I’d never heard of: Cooper, Keller and Associates. The letterhead was expensive-looking, heavy stock with embossed lettering.

“Dear Mr. Norton, per our phone conversation, I’m enclosing the documents we discussed regarding the coastal property matter. As you requested, these have been prepared with the utmost discretion. The secondary trust structure should provide the protection you’re seeking. Please remember that the arrangement we discussed requires absolute confidentiality. Should your wife make inquiries, refer her to me directly. The retainer you provided covers our services for the next 5 years. After that, we’ll need to discuss renewal. Regards, Roy Cooper, Esq.”

I read it three times. Thomas had hired a lawyer I’d never heard of for a coastal property matter, with instructions to keep it confidential from me.

My husband—my honest, straightforward, meticulous husband—had hidden something from me. Something involving this beach house, something that required lawyers and secret trusts and discretion.

The betrayal cut deeper than I’d expected. Thomas and I had shared everything—or so I’d thought.

I was still holding the letter when my phone rang again. Unknown number. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Norton, this is Detective Lauren Wade with the Seabrook Police Department. Deputy Martinez filed a report about the incident at your home Tuesday night. I have a few follow-up questions. Would now be a good time?”

My throat tightened. “Of course.” “Great. I’m actually in the area. Would you mind if I stopped by? Say, in about 10 minutes?”

Follow-up Questions

10 minutes—not enough time to hide everything, to prepare, to think. “That’s fine,” I heard myself say.

I’d barely returned the letter to its folder when headlights swept across my front window. A plain sedan pulled into my driveway. A woman in her 40s, athletic build, dark hair pulled back, climbed out.

I opened the door before she could knock. “Mrs. Norton, I’m Detective Wade.” She showed me her badge. “Thanks for making time.”

“Of course. Please, come in.” She entered with the casual alertness of someone trained to notice everything. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the boxes, the furniture, the security keypad by the door.

“Nice place. Just moved in Tuesday?” “That was my first night here, right.” She pulled out a small notebook.

“Deputy Martinez mentioned the alarm went off around 2:47 a.m. Back door, but no signs of forced entry?” “That’s correct.” “And you didn’t see anyone?” “No. By the time I got there, whoever it was had gone.”

“Whoever it was?” She looked up from her notes. “So you think someone was actually here? Not just a malfunction?”

I hesitated. This was the moment to mention the perfume, the opened box, the documents. But something held me back.

Maybe it was the way she was watching me—professionally sympathetic but with an undertone of skepticism that suggested she already thought I was a paranoid elderly woman. “I don’t know,” I said carefully.

“The door was definitely open. Old houses by the ocean, locks fail all the time. Salt air, moisture…” She smiled reassuringly. “Still, better safe than sorry. That’s a good security system you installed.”

“Thank you.” “When did you have it put in?” “Monday.” Her pen paused. “The day before the incident?” “Yes.”

“Is that significant?” “Just noting the timeline,” she scribbled something. “And you live alone?” “I’m a widow.”

“Any family in the area?” “My son lives in Lake Oswego, about 2 hours away.” “Does he have a key to this place?”

The question felt loaded. “No. Why?” “Just wondering if anyone else might have legitimate access. Anyone who might trigger the alarm accidentally.”

She looked around again. “You mentioned to Deputy Martinez that nothing was missing?” “Not that I could tell.” “And you’re certain the door was locked before you went to bed?” “Positive.”

Detective Wade closed her notebook. “Well, Mrs. Norton, I’ll be honest. We don’t have much to go on here. No evidence of forced entry, nothing stolen, no witnesses. Could have been kids, could have been the wind—hard to say.”

“Kids?” I kept my voice neutral. “We get teenagers sometimes messing around in the empty beach houses. Probably saw your lights on, didn’t realize anyone had moved in, got spooked when the alarm went off.”

She handed me her card. “But if anything else happens, anything at all, you call me directly, okay?” After she left, I stood in my kitchen and realized what had just happened.

The detective had already decided this was nothing—an overreaction by a nervous old woman in a new house. Which meant if something else happened—if Rebecca came back, if this situation escalated—I was on my own.

I looked at the documents spread across Thomas’s desk: the forged trust agreement, the letter from the Seattle lawyer, the property records showing transactions I didn’t remember. Saturday, Michael and Rebecca would arrive.

They’d ask questions, probe gently, try to determine how much I knew. And I’d have to sit across from my daughter-in-law and pretend I didn’t know she’d been in this house searching through my belongings, hunting for something in Thomas’s files.

I had less than 48 hours to find out what that something was, and to figure out why my dead husband had hidden a beach house from me for 8 years. Friday morning arrived with bruised clouds and the promise of rain.

I’d managed perhaps 3 hours of sleep, plagued by dreams of Thomas signing documents while Rebecca watched from the shadows, smiling. My appointment with Martin Whitaker was at 2:00.

I had the morning to prepare, to organize my thoughts and questions. But first, I needed to do something I’d been avoiding. I needed to call the law firm in Seattle: Cooper, Keller and Associates.