He watched my face for a moment. Something in him wasn’t sure.
Then he said, “Good,” and walked back around the corner to the grill.
I stood there between the garbage cans for a while, finishing my lemonade.
Then I went down to the basement and got the folder out of the safe.
The next morning, I walked into the Legal Assistance office at Fort Carson at 0800 with the folder tucked under my arm.
I’d called ahead. I’d said it was urgent. I must have sounded like I meant it, because they got me in to see Captain Morales at the start of the day.
Captain Elena Morales was about my age, maybe a little older, with dark hair pulled back tight and a desk so neat it looked like nobody had ever used it. She shook my hand and pointed to the chair across from her.
“Tell me what you’ve got.”
I told her.
I told her about the trash bags. The basement. The cot. I told her about the bank alerts and the transfers and the power of attorney. I told her about the barbecue and the side of the house and “I still have connections.”
She didn’t interrupt. She just wrote.
Then I laid it all out on her desk. The bank statements, printed at the library that morning. The account access records. The power of attorney.
She went through them slowly. Page by page.
When she got to the power of attorney, her pace slowed.
She looked at the signature for a long time.
“That’s not yours.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure.”
I took a pen off her desk and signed my name on a blank sheet of paper. Katherine A. Hollis. I slid it next to the power of attorney.
