Chapter 8 - The Signature
The power of attorney looked almost perfect.
That frightened me more than an obvious forgery would have.
My full legal name appeared beneath paragraphs granting Daniel broad authority over personal banking, insurance, contracts, medical coordination, and property administration.
My signature sat at the bottom.
A notary seal appeared beside it.
I stared at the page until the letters blurred.
“That looks like mine.”
Margaret nodded.
“It does.”
“But I did not sign it.”
“Then someone practiced.”
We compared it with years of documents.
Hotel agreements.
Mortgage closings.
Trust amendments.
Letters.
Checks.
Birthday cards.
The forged signature matched my recent handwriting unusually well.
Then Margaret noticed something.
“Your E.”
“What about it?”
“You changed how you signed Evelyn after your infection.”
She placed two pages side by side.
My hand had weakened after months in the hospital.
The first loop of my E became smaller.
The forged power of attorney used my old signature.
The one I had used before becoming disabled.
My son had copied it from an older document.
Margaret photographed both.
“Who notarized this?”
She searched the commission number.
The notary was a mobile service based thirty miles away.
Margaret called.
The woman remembered Daniel.
She also remembered me.
Or thought she did.
“A woman was present,” the notary said over speakerphone.
“What woman?” Margaret asked.
“She was in bed.”
I stared at Margaret.
The notary continued.
“The son said his mother was tired.”
“What did she look like?”
“I didn’t really see her face clearly.”
“Why?”
“The room was dim.”
My skin prickled.
“When did this happen?”
The notary gave the date.
I knew exactly where I had been.
At St. Catherine Rehabilitation Center.
For physical therapy.
For four nights.
My bedroom at home had been empty.
Margaret’s face changed.
“Was the woman awake?”
“She nodded.”
“Did she speak?”
“Not much.”
“Did you check photo identification?”
“The son handed me a passport.”
My passport.
The same passport Daniel kept with the household documents.
The same passport he had collected before leaving for Cancún.
Margaret thanked the notary and ended the call.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then I said, “Who was in my bed?”
We both knew the likely answer.
Kendra.
A woman in a dark room.
My passport.
My old signature.
A son saying his disabled mother was tired.
Margaret immediately requested surveillance records from the rehabilitation center to prove my location.
Then she subpoenaed the notary’s appointment records.
At six that evening, the forensic accountant sent another discovery.
The fake power of attorney had never been used against the trust.
The trust’s internal safeguards rejected it.
But Daniel had used it elsewhere.
At my personal bank.
At my insurance company.
And at a brokerage account Thomas had deliberately left outside the trust for my unrestricted use.
The brokerage account had once held $412,000.
Its current balance was $73,441.
I stared at the number.
“Where did it go?”
Margaret opened the transfer history.
Most withdrawals moved through accounts connected to Daniel.
But one transfer stood out.
$180,000.
Destination.
Blue Tide Holdings.
Date.
Three weeks earlier.
Memo.
PROPERTY ACQUISITION.
Margaret looked at me.
“Did Daniel buy something?”
I thought of Cancún.
The expensive restaurants.
Kendra’s new SUV.
The constant talk about needing privacy.
“No.”
May you like
I stared at the screen.
“I think he planned to.”
