I skimmed the pages. My hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled.
The mortgage had been signed by Trevor. On my behalf. Under a general power of attorney. A legal document that supposedly gave him the right to do anything he wanted with my property while I was unable to act for myself.
My signature was at the bottom of that power of attorney.
I stared at it.
Then I noticed the document number. A long string of numbers printed in small type in the upper right corner, next to the notary’s stamp.
I knew that number.
I didn’t know it by heart, but I knew the first part of it. I’d seen it before.
It matched an old power of attorney I had actually signed. Years ago, back in 2020. A limited power of
attorney. I’d signed it at a notary’s office in Dublin so Trevor could handle some routine paperwork for the business while I was away at a trade show for a week. Renewing a vehicle registration for the delivery van. Picking up certified mail. Signing for packages.
