Chapter 12 - Ambush at High Noon
The rain was hammering against the tinted panoramic windows of First American Title’s tenth-floor conference room in downtown Portland. Owen and I stood in an adjoining observation office behind a one-way security glass panel, flanked by Detective Reynolds and an armed county investigator. On the mahogany conference table in the main room sat two leather folders containing mock closing documents, prepped by Marcus Vance to stage a legitimate signing conference.
At twelve-fifteen, the heavy oak door of the conference room swung open. Walking in was not Lydia Vance, but a slick, nervous young man in an ill-fitting tailored suit carrying a designer leather briefcase. Behind him, however, stepped a figure who made the breath hitch in my throat.
It was our mother, Evelyn.
She wasn't dressed in her usual church coat or casual suburban attire. She wore an expensive camel hair coat, oversized sunglasses, and held a forged Oregon driver's license displaying my legal name and birthdate, doctored with her own aged photograph beneath an amateur lamination film. Beside her, the young man—whom Detective Reynolds quickly identified on his tablet as Lydia’s former junior escrow clerk, Brett Morales—pulled out a chair with trembling hands.
"Are you certain we don't have to wait for the senior closer?" Evelyn asked Brett, her voice shaking with palpable terror. "Lydia promised me this was purely routine. She swore that Mara agreed to let us pull the equity out so Daniel’s children wouldn't lose their school tuition. She told me Mara was too busy in court to sign in person."
"Just sign the signature lines marked with red flags, Mrs. Vance," Brett whispered hoarsely, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Lydia is waiting in the idling car downstairs in the garage. As soon as the title officer stamps the notary acknowledgment, the bank releases the initial sixty-thousand-dollar cash advance directly to the corporate account. If we linger, security might flag the corporate registration."
Behind the glass, Owen looked at me, his eyes dark with absolute disbelief. "Your sister didn't even have the stomach to walk into the slaughterhouse herself. She sent your seventy-year-old mother to commit aggravated identity theft."
"My mother chose to walk through that door," I said, cold fury washing away any lingering shred of familial sympathy. "She wanted so badly to believe Lydia was a savior that she agreed to impersonate me to steal my life."
Detective Reynolds tapped his radio. "Move in."
The heavy double doors of the conference room burst open. Four plainclothes detectives stepped inside, their badges flashing under the recessed halogen lighting. Evelyn jumped out of her chair with a high-pitched scream, knocking over a crystal water carafe that shattered across the mahogany table. Brett Morales immediately threw his hands into the air, backing up against the wall before dropping his briefcase to the carpet.
"Police! Nobody move! Hands where we can see them!" Detective Reynolds barked, stepping into the room.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Evelyn shrieked, clutching her designer coat around her chest like armor. "I am an elderly woman! I am simply signing financial paperwork for my family! Call my daughter Lydia! She is a licensed real estate broker!"
Owen and I stepped out from the observation hallway into the conference room. When Evelyn’s eyes locked onto mine, the blood instantly drained from her cheeks. The forged identification card slipped from her fingers, fluttering down onto the wet carpet beside the broken glass.
"Hello, Mother," I said, my voice dead and emotionless. "I see you finally decided to visit me in Oregon. Too bad it’s with a forged state ID bearing my name."
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"Mara!" Evelyn wailed, stumbling backward until Detective Reynolds caught her by the forearm to steady her. "Mara, please! Lydia told me you approved this! She told me you wanted to reconcile with me! She said this was a family trust restructure!"
"Lydia lied to you, Evelyn," Owen interrupted, his deep voice slicing through her pathetic hysterics like a razor blade. "And right now, two squad cars are boxing her Mercedes into stall forty-two of the basement parking garage. Your golden daughter used you as bait so she could make a run for the border."
