“But his name isn’t on the title,” I said. “How could he even apply?”

“He couldn’t,” Jennifer said. “Not legally.”

On the iPad screen, I watched Brent walk down the hallway toward the home office.

He pushed the door open and turned on the overhead lights.

He sat at my desk, the desk where I spent eighty hours a week building my consulting firm.

He began rummaging through the brass organizer where I kept my personal stationery.

“He’s looking for something,” I said to Molly, pointing at the screen.

Molly adjusted Ivy in her arms, her face pale.

“What is he looking for?” she asked.

“My notary stamp,” I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.

“Tessa, listen to me,” Jennifer said through the phone speaker. “If he tried to secure a loan using your property as collateral, he needed your signature.”

“He doesn’t have it,” I said.

“He would have had to provide a signed notary acknowledgment to close the loan,” Jennifer said. “That’s why he needed the stamp.”

I watched Brent open the bottom drawer of the desk.