Chapter 3 - THE FORGED SIGNATURE
I sat in the glow of the laptop screen, the silence of my living room pressing in on me. I zoomed in on the signature. The loop of the 'S', the sharp angle of the 'h'. It was a nearly perfect forgery, but it lacked the slight leftward slant I always used when signing formal documents.
My father had forged my signature to take out another three hundred thousand dollars against the credit I had guaranteed for him.
Answer One, Open Two. I knew why the bank was being aggressive—my father had quietly maxed out a fraudulent extension. But where had the money gone? The flooring company’s revenue was public enough in our small business community. They hadn't opened new warehouses. They hadn't hired new crews.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Paige.
Sarah, Mom is in tears. Dad is furious. Can you just call them tomorrow and say you overreacted? It’s Christmas.
I stared at her text. Paige, the peacekeeper. The daughter who lived in a beautiful new townhouse on the west side of town. The daughter who didn't work, yet somehow drove a brand-new SUV.
I typed back: Paige, when did you close on your townhouse?
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and appeared again. What? October. Why?
Did Dad help you with the down payment?
My phone rang instantly. Paige was calling. I answered, putting her on speaker.
"Sarah, what is wrong with you tonight?" Paige’s voice was defensive, high-pitched. "Why are you bringing up my house? Dad just gave me an early inheritance advance. It's perfectly normal. His business is booming."
"An inheritance advance," I repeated, my voice hollow.
"Yes. A hundred and fifty thousand. He said he wanted me to be secure. Why are you acting like this? You’re just jealous because Mom slapped Ethan’s hand. He was being greedy."
"Do not talk about my son," I snapped, the ice in my voice silencing her. "And Dad's business isn't booming, Paige. It's drowning. He used my credit to steal money to buy your house."
"You're crazy," Paige whispered, but I could hear the sudden tremor of doubt. "Dad wouldn't do that."
I hung up.
I needed physical proof. Digital PDFs could be disputed. I needed the original ink, the financial ledgers, the paper trail that my father, a man who still used a rolodex, inevitably kept in his office.
The next morning, the day after Christmas, I dropped Ethan off at his father’s house for his scheduled weekend. Ethan hugged me tight. "Are you mad at me, Mom?"
"Never," I kissed his forehead. "You are the best thing in my life. I'll see you Sunday."
I drove straight to Richard’s commercial flooring warehouse. The building was closed for the holiday, but I still had the emergency access key my father had given me three years ago when I first bailed him out.
The warehouse was cold and smelled of industrial adhesive. I walked up the metal stairs to the executive office. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
My father's desk was a massive mahogany monstrosity, a testament to his ego. I went straight for the locked filing cabinets. Using a heavy steel letter opener, I jimmied the cheap lock on the top drawer.
I pulled out the files labeled with the current year.
I found the bank statements. I found the transfers.
May you like
But beneath them, tucked inside a manila folder, I found something that made my blood run cold. It was a life insurance policy.
It was a policy taken out on me. The beneficiary was Richard. And the premium payments were being paid directly from the fraudulent credit line.
