Chapter 7: Forged

"Forged by me," I said.

"Yes."

"I've never seen those papers."

"That's what a forger would say," Celia said.

A man at the far end whispered to his neighbor.

Another one reached for his phone.

"Counsel," Damien said.

The lawyer sat at his elbow, silver-haired, a legal pad in front of him.

He looked at the pad.

He did not look up.

"Counsel."

"I'd need time to review the document," the lawyer said to the table.

Damien's jaw tightened.

Nobody in that room was going to save me but me.

Celia slid the sheet down the table until it stopped in front of my hands.

"Please. Take a look."

I looked.

Two signatures were attached to a photocopy of the original loan.

Frank Sinclair, in blue ink, with a long looping F.

And under it, a second line, a witness: Ava Sinclair.

My name.

My handwriting, almost.

My chest went tight.

Then I breathed in, the way I do at a bedside.

Look at what's there. Not what you're afraid of.

I picked up the page and held it to the window light.

"My father signs everything left to right with the pen pressed hard," I said. "Ever since his hand was crushed in a loading dock when I was nine."

"A detail," Celia said.

"It's why the F always has a small hook at the bottom. His thumb slips."

I turned the page toward the room.

"Look at his name. The hook is there."

A few of them leaned in.

"Now look at mine."

I put my finger under the witness line.

"My name is perfect. Nobody's signature is perfect. Mine dips at the end because I'm left-handed and I drag the pen through the ink."

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