Chapter 12: The Signature

His mother lived in a gray stone house on a hill.

It had a long porch and a garden put to bed for winter.

She opened the door herself before I rang.

"You came," she said.

"You asked."

"Most people don't." She took my coat. "Come in. She's already here."

The woman from the rental company sat at the dining room table with a leather folder and a pot of coffee.

She was about sixty, in a church-lady cardigan, and she looked at me with open sympathy.

"Honey, I'm sorry about this," she said.

"I told her I wasn't sure I should."

His mother gave her a look, and she opened the folder.

I sat down.

My phone buzzed on my knee.

It was Quinn.

"I'm outside in the truck if you need me," it said. "I won't come in unless you text. Three letters. Any three."

I almost smiled.

I turned the phone face down.

The woman slid a paper across the table.

It was a two-page contract on thick cream stock, the logo of her company in green at the top.

CUSTOMER: IMOGEN M. BRANNIGAN.

An address that was mine.

A guest count of 140, a tent size I couldn't have pictured, a total with a comma in it.

At the bottom, on the line for the customer signature, was a looping scrawl that read Imogen Brannigan.

It wasn't mine.

My signature slants left, and I cross the g like a little knife.

This one leaned right and curled at the end.

"That's not my handwriting," I said.

"I didn't think so." The woman closed her eyes briefly.

"Honey, the signature was on the first deposit, back in March."

"Your mother brought it in. She said you were too busy at the hospital to come."