“It’s your house,” she said. “It was always your house. I need to stop living in things that aren’t mine.”
They found a small two-bedroom apartment on the east side. Vance picked up work with a different construction crew. I helped them move. Nobody asked me to. I just showed up with my truck on a Saturday morning, and Vance looked at me for a long time, and then he said, “Thanks, Kate,” and handed me the other end of their couch.
The police investigation took three months.
My mother was charged with theft and forgery and misuse of a power of attorney. My father was charged with forgery. There was also the CID investigation into his threats about my promotion, which ended with him losing his civilian job on post. Colonel Brandt testified. So did Brenda from Mesa Title. So did my grandfather, in a way, through his affidavit, fourteen years after he signed it.
In the end, they both took plea deals. Probation. A record. And full restitution of the forty-five thousand dollars, paid back in monthly installments.
They had to sell the car to make the first payment.
I didn’t feel happy about that. I thought I would. I didn’t.
My mother didn’t speak to me through any of it. Not a single word. When I saw her in the courthouse hallway, she looked right through me like I was a window.
My father called me once. It was a Sunday night in October, about two weeks after the plea deal. I almost didn’t answer.
“Kate.”
“Dad.”
There was a long silence.
“I read it,” he said. “The affidavit. My lawyer showed it to me.” His voice was rough. “I didn’t know he wrote it down. I thought he just… forgot. I thought he forgave me and forgot.”
