“Clara,” Martin said. “This is criminal forgery and elder exploitation. Brenda is terrified, which means she will cooperate with us. We are going to set a trap. Do not say a word to Craig. Let him think he has won.”

On Wednesday night, Craig called me. His voice was dripping with fake concern, a tone I had never heard him use before.

“Hey, Clara,” he said. “Just checking in on you. I know you’ve been feeling a bit forgetful lately. I’m going to swing by tomorrow morning to help you pack up some of your things. We found a really nice senior community over in Jackson.”

“That would be nice, Craig,” I replied, keeping my voice soft and slightly hesitant. “I suppose I have been a bit tired. I will see you tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone and stared at the empty kitchen. I felt sick to my stomach, but I knew I had to be strong. Arthur would have wanted me to protect our home.

On Thursday morning, I sat at the kitchen table. I made a pot of black tea. I poured a cup into Arthur’s chipped blue mug. I waited.

At exactly nine o’clock, Craig’s rusted Chevy Silverado pulled into my driveway. I watched him walk up the porch steps through the kitchen window. He was carrying a stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes under his arm.

He did not knock. He opened the front door and walked right into my kitchen, his heavy work boots clomping on the linoleum.

“Morning, Clara,” he said, not looking me in the eye. He was already looking at the antique hutch in the dining room, probably wondering how much he could get for it on Facebook Marketplace. “Let’s get started.

The movers will be here on Friday morning to clear the big furniture.”

“I am not going to Jackson, Craig,” I said. I took a slow sip of my tea.

Craig chuckled, a condescending, ugly sound. He shook his head and stepped closer to the table, invading my space.

“Clara, we talked about this,” he said, speaking slowly as if he were talking to a toddler. “You aren’t well. The state says so. I have the papers right here. You don’t have a choice anymore. It’s for your own good.”

He reached into his pocket to pull out the document.

Before he could speak another word, the dining room door swung open.

Two deputies from the Ingham County Sheriff’s Department stepped into the kitchen. Behind them walked Brenda Miller, her face blotchy and her eyes red from crying. She pointed a trembling finger at Craig.