Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE
I dropped to my knees on the hardwood floor and snatched the document.
The bold black ink at the top of the page blurred for a second before snapping into horrifying focus.
Defendant: Lyra Kensington.
My lungs seized. I flipped through the pages of the federal indictment. It detailed a fraudulent commercial loan taken out two years ago for a boutique fitness studio Vanessa had tried, and failed, to launch. The loan was secured by fabricating income records and pledging collateral that didn't exist.
The signature on the last page was mine. Or, rather, a flawless forgery of it.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Daniel. He answered on the second ring.
"Daniel, my mother just handed me a federal summons," I stammered, reading him the docket number. "They used my social security number. They forged my signature."
"Stay right there. Don't speak to anyone," Daniel ordered, his professional calm acting as an anchor in my spiraling panic. "I'm pulling the digital file now."
Ten minutes later, Daniel was sitting across from me at the kitchen island, his laptop glowing. "The loan was executed at a branch in downtown Chicago," he said, his brow furrowed. "The signature was notarized. That’s the problem. A notary legally verified that you were sitting in that chair, signing that paper."
"I was in college two years ago!" I protested. "I never stepped foot in that bank."
"Look at the notary's name," Daniel said, turning the screen toward me.
Marcus Thorne.
The name hit me like a physical blow. Marcus Thorne was Vanessa’s godfather. He was a retired real estate broker who had always bent over backwards for my mother.
"He stamped it," I whispered. "They conspired to ruin me so Vanessa could play entrepreneur."
"If the bank proves you’re liable, they can seize the estate to cover the debt," Daniel explained grimly. "The house, the accounts, everything Eleanor left you. Your mother knows she can't break the trust, so she’s letting the federal government take it from you instead."
I looked down at the frayed leather ledger Grandma had left. I traced the binding with my fingertip, feeling a strange lump beneath the back cover.
May you like
I grabbed a butter knife from the drying rack and carefully slit the old leather. A small, brass key slipped out, clattering onto the granite counter.
Wrapped around the key was a tiny strip of paper in Grandma’s unmistakable handwriting: Box 402. First Century Bank. If Linda tries to burn the house down, use the extinguisher.
