I leaned over his shoulder, my eyes straining to read the tiny, faded numbers on the screen of the microfilm reader. My bare left wrist felt cold where my watch used to sit, and I rubbed the pale band of skin out of habit.
“We are looking for any transfer of title that didn’t go through his family’s primary real estate firm,” David said, tapping his black pen against the side of his briefcase.
“Marcus always said his mother handled every transaction,” I said. “He told me he didn’t even have the authority to sign a utility lease without her approval.”
“His mother might run the family trust, but Marcus was clever enough to find the gaps,” David said.
He clicked the print button, and the machine gave a high-pitched whine before spitting out a warm sheet of paper. He slid it across the table toward me, the fresh ink smelling of hot plastic.
“Look at the buyer’s line on this deed,” David said.
My breath caught slightly, but I kept my voice steady as I read the name.
“Kesha Bennett,” I said.
“He used your maiden name, Kesha,” David said, his pen hovering over the signature line at the bottom of the page. “And he signed it himself.”
I looked at the cursive loops of the signature. It was a clumsy imitation of my handwriting, the letters too tall and slanted too far to the right.
“He bought a two-acre lot near Lake Travis while we were still living in the duplex on Duval Street,” I said. “That was the winter the heater broke and we had to keep the children in the kitchen with the oven door open.”
“The tax bills for this property were sent to a post office box in north Austin,” David said, closing the black leather binder with a soft thud. “He made sure nothing ever came to your actual address.”
“How did he pay for it?” I asked.
“That is what we need to find out next,” David said, gathering his papers. “A property like this requires a significant down payment, even with a private mortgage.”
