Chapter 12: The Forgery

Two police officers stood on either side of the boardroom door at nine on Monday morning.

I walked between them with Anson at my shoulder and my chin up.

Reporters packed the glass corridor outside, their phones raised against the windows.

My father had called the press himself.

He sat at the head of the black table in a charcoal suit, and he rose when he saw me.

"Abigail," he said, and his voice broke. "My darling girl."

"Abby," I said, and took a chair.

He turned to the board with a sad, heavy sigh.

"Friends, I wish with all my heart I were not here. A week ago, my wife wrote a check for one million dollars to help our daughter settle in."

"She wrote it in love. Abigail, I believe, altered it."

"The amount, the account, the signature. All of it changed, to cover a debt."

"I begged the police to let me handle it as a family."

"They said it's a felony, and the law is the law."

Somebody at the table whispered, poor man.

I put my palms flat on the glass.

"May I speak?" I asked.

"Of course, sweetheart."

"I'd like to start with the check."

I took it out of my pocket and laid it face down on the table.

"Turn it over, please," I said to the old director with the mustache.

He did.

"What do you see on the back?"

"Nothing," he said. "Blank."

"My mother has marked the back of every check she's written for thirty-five years. A small blue B in the corner."

"This check has no B. It isn't the check she wrote."

"It's a copy, printed on matching paper, with the signature left off."

My father's smile stayed put.

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