Chapter 3 - The Forged Signature
I stared at the signature for a long time.
It looked like mine.
Almost.
Whoever copied it knew I crossed the F hard and dragged the last letter of Fletcher into a long tail.
But there was one mistake.
My father taught me to sign my name when I was twelve.
He made me practice until I could do it the same way every time.
I never dotted the “i” in Franklin until the very end.
The forged signature had the dot directly above the letter.
Too neat.
Too careful.
Not mine.
Martin zoomed in.
“Good forgery.”
“Not good enough.”
“Do you know who could’ve done it?”
I thought about Christmas cards.
Permission slips.
Old checks.
Hundreds of documents lying around the house over thirty years.
“Any of them.”
Martin nodded.
“The application requests a $240,000 home equity loan.”
I laughed.
That came out ugly.
“They wanted two hundred forty thousand dollars against a house they don’t own.”
“They may not know that yet.”
“When will they?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want to stop this quietly or let them walk deeper into it.”
I looked at him.
“You’re telling me to let them commit fraud?”
“No. I’m telling you not to warn people who may already have committed it.”
He printed the application.
“We notify the lender immediately and formally dispute the signature. We also freeze any transaction involving trust property.”
“Can we stop them from taking more money?”
“We can stop them from touching accounts under your sole control. The joint account is complicated.”
“Then empty my share.”
“Not tonight.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because right now, Frank, they think you know nothing.”
Martin tapped the forged loan application.
“That ignorance is the only advantage you have.”
I hated the way that sounded.
Like my family was now an opposing legal team.
But he was right.
I walked back to the house at 10:43 p.m.
Denise was in the kitchen drinking tea.
She looked up.
“You were out there a while.”
“Had some work.”
“At this hour?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She studied my face.
For a second, I wondered if she knew.
Then she said, “I’m glad you’re being reasonable.”
Reasonable.
That word almost made me snap.
Instead, I opened the refrigerator.
“About what?”
“The wedding.”
I took out a bottle of water.
“I told you. I hope it’s beautiful.”
She relaxed.
That hurt almost as much as the rest.
She had expected anger.
She had prepared for a fight.
My surrender made her comfortable.
“What are you going to do Saturday?” she asked.
I twisted the cap.
“Probably work.”
“That might be best.”
I smiled.
“Probably.”
She stepped closer and touched my arm.
The gesture made my skin crawl.
“Frank, after the wedding, I think we should talk about making some changes.”
“What kind of changes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe simplify things.”
“Sell the workshop?”
Her fingers froze against my sleeve.
Just for half a second.
But I felt it.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you always complain about how much maintenance it needs.”
“Oh.”
She smiled.
“Maybe.”
Then she kissed my cheek.
A dead little kiss.
“Good night.”
I watched her walk upstairs.
At midnight, Martin texted me.
DO NOT SIGN ANYTHING.
Then another message.
I FOUND SOMETHING ELSE. CALL ME WHEN SAFE.
I waited until Denise was asleep.
Then I went downstairs and called from the workshop.
“What did you find?”
Martin sounded tired.
“The wedding venue’s operating account.”
“What about it?”
“There have been reimbursement requests submitted under your name.”
“For what?”
“Renovations. Catering advances. Vendor deposits.”
“I paid those directly.”
“I know.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“Thirty-one thousand so far.”
“Submitted by who?”
“Mostly Sabrina.”
I sat down hard.
Martin continued.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more.
“What?”
“Someone tried to add Raymond Mercer as an authorized manager of the venue.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I gripped the phone.
“Can he access anything?”
“No. The request was rejected because only the trustee can authorize it.”
“Did they notify him?”
“Looks like they sent an automated denial.”
I pictured Raymond reading it.
That worried me.
“If he knows the trust blocked him, he may start asking questions.”
“Exactly.”
I stood.
“What do we do?”
Martin answered carefully.
“You act normal.”
“That’s getting harder.”
“You need one more day.”
“For what?”
“To trace the money.”
I looked through the workshop window at the dark house.
“Where do you think it went?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then Martin paused.
“But I know where part of it is supposed to go tomorrow morning.”
My pulse changed.
“Where?”
“A title company.”
“For what?”
“A property purchase.”
“Whose property?”
May you like
He exhaled slowly.
“Yours.”
