He was younger than me by seven years, with silver hair, patient eyes, and a habit of reading every document twice before speaking.
He studied the supposed power of attorney for nearly ten minutes.
“This is broad.”
“That’s what the bank manager said.”
“It allows control over deposit accounts, securities, property transactions, tax matters, insurance policies…”
He turned the page.
“Essentially everything.”
“Can she do that without me knowing?”
“Not legally, assuming you didn’t sign it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then the issue is not what the document authorizes. The issue is whether it is authentic.”
He examined the notary block.
“Lydia Mercer.”
“Patricia thinks she recognizes the name.”
“From where?”
“She doesn’t know.”
Martin typed something into his computer.
“Notaries are commissioned through the state. We can verify her.”
He searched for a moment.
Then his expression changed slightly.
“What?”
“She’s real.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
