She suggested coming to my house.
That interested me.
If their only concern had been advice, neutral ground would have worked.
My home offered something else.
Observation.
I said:
“Thursday at two.”
Then called Louise.
Then Phoebe.
Phoebe contacted someone she knew through the state attorney general’s office.
Dena Ruiz.
An investigator experienced in suspected financial exploitation.
“Let them come,” Phoebe said.
“Don’t confront.”
“What do I do?”
“Listen.”
“Let them show you the plan.”
The night before the meeting, Louise sat with me at the kitchen table.
Lights low.
Tea between us.
Thirty-one years of friendship.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she said, “you are not the woman from row six anymore.”
I smiled.
“No.”
I wasn’t.
Thursday afternoon, I watched Porsche’s car pull into the driveway.
Michael sat in front.
Randall Stokes stepped out from the rear passenger side.
Charcoal suit.
Leather briefcase.
He stood beside the car and looked at my house.
Roofline.
Windows.
Lot.
Value.
That morning, I had been in the garden.
When Porsche called:
“Kathleen?”
I stood with dirt on my hands.
“This is Randall.”
He shook my hand.
Professional smile.
“Mrs. Basset.”
“Coffee?”
“That would be lovely.”
Inside, I made a pot.
Nothing else.
No cookies.
No hospitality performance.
They arranged themselves in the living room.
Randall took the chair near the window.
Porsche and Michael sat on the couch.
Positions that felt preplanned.
Randall opened.
He spoke about widows.
Complex finances.
Decision fatigue.
Fraud risk.
Maintenance burdens.
Loneliness.
Medical emergencies.
Every sentence reasonable on its own.
Then I asked:
“What exactly am I being protected from?”
Porsche answered.
“A bad decision.”
“Health changes.”
“Stress.”
“The burden of the house.”
She looked around.
“This place is a lot for one person.”
“I manage.”
“For now.”
Michael finally looked at me.
“Mom.”
I turned.
He looked away.
Porsche reached into her bag.
“We’ve found some communities.”
Brochure.
Assisted living.
Private rooms.
Dining.
Activities.
Medical support.
She mentioned my age twice.
I picked up the brochure.
Set it down.
Randall opened his briefcase.
Documents.
A durable power of attorney.
Michael and Porsche would receive broad authority over accounts and property.
An asset-management agreement.
Randall’s firm.
Then an assisted-living application.
My name and address were already typed into it.
A pen rested beside the documents.
I read the power of attorney slowly.
It was extraordinarily broad.
Control over banking.
Property.
Investments.
Transactions.
I looked at Randall.
“Your management fee?”
He quoted a percentage.
I calculated the annual amount aloud.
No hesitation.
Randall’s expression shifted slightly.
“That is correct.”
“And this authority begins when?”
He explained.
I asked another question.
Then another.
His answers became more careful.
Finally I said:
“I need time.”
Porsche’s warmth cooled.
“Randall has already done considerable work.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
Silence.
“We’re just trying to make this easy.”
“I appreciate that.”
I stood.
“Excuse me. I need the restroom.”
I walked into the hallway.
Then stopped where they could not see me.
Their voices lowered.
Randall first.
“She’s sharper than I expected.”
Porsche: