When dinner ended, Dulce guided the group into my oak-paneled study.

A thick legal folder lay on the desk.

She took charge at once, opening it and pressing a pen into my trembling hand.

“Just sign here, sweetheart,” she whispered at my ear, her voice warm as poured honey.

“It’s only paperwork so I can look after the bills.” I looked down.

It was the full power of attorney — declaring me incompetent, surrendering my property, my money, and my medical care to Dulce Ashland.