The Woman I Helped at the Grocery Store Gave Me a Strange Warning About My Husband

I turned sharply to the neighbor, not understanding.

“What appraisers? Maria, why appraisers at all?”

“Well, I do not know exactly. Maybe someone is planning to sell the house and is doing an appraisal.”

The neighbor suddenly cut herself off mid-sentence, seeing my completely whitened, frozen face.

“Oh, Elara, forgive me. I am an old fool. I probably said something stupid.”

But Officer Pernell was already alert like an experienced hound.

“Mrs. Higgins, why did you think of a real estate agency immediately?”

“Well, just an association,”

the neighbor hesitated, embarrassed.

“Just last month an appraiser from an agency came to me when I was looking at and buying my daughter’s apartment in the city. So he also arrived late in the evening; he had no time during the day.”

“It was exactly the same company car with a big bright agency logo on the door. It just seemed very similar to me.”

The officer magnified the image of the car on the screen even more, as much as the recording quality allowed. The writing on the side door was very hard to read due to distance and darkness, and it was blurred.

But the first word could still be distinguished. It seemed to be Hearth.

“He, Hearth… Hearth something else.”

He quickly wrote this down in his notebook.

“We definitely need to check all the real estate agencies in our city and county. Urgently find out who exactly has such company cars with similar markings.”

I was silent, finding no words. One insane, simply incredible thought was spinning in my head, making me feel sick.

An appraiser from a real estate agency came to inspect my house at night? But who could have called this appraiser?

The house was titled strictly to me, entirely in my name. I had never given anyone any permissions or any power of attorney.

I was not planning to sell anything at all. This was my only home.

“Mrs. Vance,”

Gareth Pernell gently but firmly placed a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Did you by chance give anyone an official notarized power of attorney for your house? For a sale, for signing any documents or deals?”

“No, of course not,”

I shook my head resolutely.

“I did not even think about any sale. This is my home; I have lived here my whole life.”

“And your husband? Vernon, could he…?”

I felt the ground go out from under my feet. I froze.

“Vernon? But he cannot do anything at all without my knowledge and consent. The house is fully titled strictly to me in my name.”

“Theoretically, he really cannot and should not,”

the officer agreed slowly.

“But in practice, unfortunately, all sorts of unpleasant situations happen: fraud, forgery of signatures and documents. Let us definitely check the real estate agencies in all districts.”

“If it really was an appraiser from some agency, we will definitely find out thoroughly who exactly ordered this night assessment of your house.”

By lunchtime, we were sitting in the office of Hearthstone Realty in the city center. Gareth Pernell had found three agencies with similar logos in the vehicle database.

He called them, and in the third one, they confirmed: yes, their appraiser went out to Chestnut Street yesterday evening.

The agency director, Isaac Graves, a man of about forty in an expensive suit, met us with a faint politeness that poorly concealed his nervousness.

“Please have a seat,”

he pointed to the leather chairs in front of the desk.

“How can I help?”

“Yesterday your employee went to the address 17 Chestnut Street,”

Pernell began, taking out his badge.

“Appraised a house. We would like to know the details.”

“Chestnut 17?”

Graves frowned and opened a folder on the desk. He leafed through it.

“Yes, correct. Order for an appraisal of a private house with a lot. What is the problem?”

“The problem is,”

I leaned forward, trying to speak calmly though my hands were shaking,

“that this house is mine, and I did not call anyone for an appraisal.”

The director raised his eyebrows.

“How is that? The order is filed in the owner’s name. Look here.”

He turned the folder around and showed a document.

“Vance Vernon Michael, client owner. Vance Ara.”

There is a power of attorney from the owner.

“What power of attorney?”

My voice broke.

“I gave no power of attorney.”

Graves blinked in confusion and dug into the folder again. He took out another sheet.

“Here, please. Power of attorney from Vance E. Authorized spouse to represent interests in real estate transactions. Notarized.”

He held out the document. I grabbed the sheet, drilling into it with my eyes.

My name, passport data, and address—everything was correct. At the bottom was a signature.

It was my signature, but I had not signed this. Never.

“It is a forgery,”

I whispered, feeling the room swim before my eyes.

“I did not sign this.”

Officer Pernell took the document from me and studied it carefully.

“Mr. Graves, when was this power of attorney brought to you?”

“A week ago. Vernon Vance came in person. He said he wanted to sell the house and asked to conduct an appraisal.”

“We processed everything and agreed on a site visit. He said his wife was aware; she just had no time to deal with it and trusted him.”

“And you did not check the authenticity of the power of attorney?”

The officer looked at the director with a heavy gaze.

“It has a notary seal, everything as required,”

Graves squirmed in his chair.

“We are not required to verify every power of attorney through the notary board. That is not our job.”

“Show me all correspondence with the client,”

Pernell cut him off.

“Everything you have: documents, contracts, emails.”

The director nodded and went into the computer. I sat staring at one spot. My head buzzed.

Vernon, my husband, forged my signature. He wanted to sell the house—our house—without saying a word to me.

“Look here.”

Graves turned the monitor.

“First contact two weeks ago. He emailed and asked about appraisal and sale of a house.”

“We set up a meeting. He came and brought documents. We drew up a contract for appraisal.”

“The appraiser went out and inspected the house at night,”

I inserted dully.

“At 11:00 at night while I was sleeping. He walked around the house and peered into windows.”

“Well, the client requested evening time specifically. Said someone is there during the day and he needed it to be unnoticed.”

Graves spread his hands.

“We do not refuse clients if the request does not break the law.”

“And the fact that you are working with forged documents? That does not break the law?”

Officer Pernell slammed his palm on the table.

“I did not know the documents were forged!”

Graves went pale.

“I swear everything looked legal!”

“What happened next?”

The officer nodded at the monitor.

“After the appraisal, we compiled a report. The house was valued at $420,000. Vance agreed to this amount and asked to find a buyer.”

“We posted a listing.”

“When?”

I interrupted.

“This morning. And a buyer has already responded. A serious man ready to pay cash immediately.”

“We set up a meeting for the day after tomorrow to sign the preliminary contract.”

I covered my face with my hands. The day after tomorrow.

Two more days and the house would have been sold. My home where she had lived for thirty plus years.

“Where is this buyer now?”

asked Officer Pernell.

“I do not know. He called and left a number. Said the money is ready and he is interested in a quick deal.”

“I see.”

The officer wrote down the phone number.

“Mr. Graves, the deal will have to be cancelled. A criminal case is being opened regarding fraud and forgery of documents.”

“But, but we have nothing to do with it!”

Graves jumped up.

“We worked in good faith! We were deceived!”

“We will sort it out. For now, give me all documents, copies of correspondence, and your appraiser’s contact info.”

Blossoming After the Blizzard

Half an hour later, we walked out of the agency. I walked like I was in a dream, not feeling my feet.

Gareth supported me by the elbow.

“Mrs. Vance, you need to sit down. There is a diner over there. Let us go in.”

We sat at a table by the window. The officer ordered me tea with sugar and coffee for himself.

I wrapped my hands around the hot cup but could not get warm. The cold was inside, icy and piercing.

“Why?”

I whispered.

“Why would he do that?”

Pernell sighed and sipped his coffee.

“Money, Mrs. Vance. 400,000 is no small sum. Apparently, he needed it urgently or decided to start a new life. It happens.”

“But this, this is betrayal. We have been together so many years. 32 years.”

“I have seen all kinds of things over the years.”