Every tax receipt.
Every insurance statement.
And every utility bill was filed in labeled folders inside the old study.
She stood slowly.
They found the documents in a green filing box beneath Lorraine's desk.
The box contained property records, garden receipts, letters from the city, and photographs of the house dating back decades.
Talia opened a folder labeled Yard and Property.
Inside was a notice issued thirteen months earlier.
It alleged that the rose garden extended into a municipal visibility area.
The document listed Greenway Civic Maintenance as an approved service provider.
It also contained a warning that continued noncompliance could lead to municipal intervention.
The notice was almost identical to Margaret's.
Nadia photographed the document and asked about the dates.
Talia explained that her mother had died two months after receiving it.
Then she discovered a second letter.
It was a response Lorraine had written to the city code office.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Her mother had always formed capital letters with unusually long vertical strokes and ended handwritten notes with a tiny flourish beneath her name.
Talia unfolded the page.
The letter was firm but polite.
Lorraine explained that the rose garden stood within her property boundary, that the sidewalk remained clear, and that she wanted the city to identify the actual violation before demanding removal.
Near the bottom, she'd written a sentence that made Talia's eyes fill.
These flowers were planted with my late husband, and I would appreciate it if your office treated them with the care they deserve.
Talia stopped reading.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Nadia remained quiet.
Then Talia folded the letter carefully.
"My mother wasn't refusing a safety rule. She was asking them to explain it."
The investigator nodded.
"And that's exactly what we need to determine."
The third document was more disturbing.
It appeared to be an acknowledgment from the municipal code office confirming receipt of Lorraine's appeal.
But the date was four months after Lorraine died.
"That's impossible."
Nadia examined the document.
The acknowledgment appeared to reference a withdrawal of the appeal.
It stated that Lorraine Monroe had accepted the violation and agreed to allow approved corrective work.
The document contained a signature.
Lorraine Monroe.
Talia felt cold.
She knew her mother's handwriting better than almost anything.
She looked at the signature.
It resembled Lorraine's name but lacked the familiar final flourish.
The letters were unusually uniform.
And the date was impossible.
Nadia asked whether Talia could provide the death certificate and estate documents through the proper process.
Then she looked toward the signature again.
For a moment, anger overwhelmed her.
Someone had apparently used her dead mother's identity to create a record of consent.
And that document may have helped justify the police response.
Nadia didn't immediately declare the signature forged.
She explained that document authenticity would need to be examined.
But the chronology raised an obvious concern.
A deceased person couldn't personally sign a withdrawal months after death.
Unless the document contained an error, misidentification, or some other legitimate explanation, it warranted serious investigation.
She understood the caution.
Then quietly said.
"My mother spent her life teaching children to read. Somebody thought they could put words in her name after she was gone."