Chapter 4: My Father's Signature
I stared at my father's signature until the letters blurred.
Daniel Carter.
The same signature he'd written on my school permission slips, my college financial aid forms, and the birthday cards he'd given me every year since my mother died.
It was unmistakably his.
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing through my ears.
“Mr. Whitmore,” I whispered into the phone, “are you telling me my father helped Laura forge my signature?””
“I am telling you that his signature appears on a document authorizing actions involving your grandmother's trust, while the signature attributed to you appears inconsistent with the identification records we have on file.””
“That isn't an answer.””
“No,” he admitted.
“It isn't. I don't want to accuse anyone without reviewing the original documents.””
I looked at the envelope on my bed.
“Then why did you say my stepmother wasn't acting alone?””
“Because the paperwork indicates that someone else participated in the authorization process. Your father's signature is one of the reasons we need to speak in person.””
I pressed my free hand against my forehead.
“Did my grandmother leave me money?””
“Yes.””
“How much?””
“I'd rather discuss the amount in person, after confirming your identity and explaining the terms of the trust.””
“Can you at least tell me whether it's a significant amount?””
A pause followed.
“Ms. Carter, your grandmother spent years planning for your future. I think it's important that you understand that.””
My throat tightened.
My grandmother had been the person who sat with me at the kitchen table when I was twelve, helping me finish a science project while my father slept after another exhausting shift. She'd attended every school event she could, even after her arthritis made walking difficult.
She'd never flaunted her money.
She'd worn the same wool coat for years and clipped coupons from the Sunday newspaper.
When she'd died, I'd received her quilt, her jewelry box, and a handwritten letter that I kept in my bedside drawer.
I'd assumed that was everything.
“Did my grandmother know about the house?”” I asked.
“Yes.””
“Did she leave anything specifically for me?””
“Several provisions were designed to protect your interests. One concerns the property where you currently reside.””
I stood abruptly.
“What does that mean?””
“It means you should not assume your stepmother has the authority to sell or transfer everything she claims she can.””
I looked toward the ceiling.
Above me, footsteps crossed the hallway. A drawer slammed shut.
Madison was still settling into my bedroom.
“Mr. Whitmore, I need to ask you something. Did you send a letter to my house three weeks ago?””
“Yes. It was addressed to you personally.””
“I never received it.””
“According to the delivery record, someone signed for it.””
“Who?””
“The record shows a signature from someone at your residence. I don't have the name in front of me, but I'll bring the documentation tomorrow.””
I closed my eyes.
Three weeks earlier, I had been sitting in a conference room in Chicago when my phone had buzzed with a message from Laura.
Your dad says everything is fine at home. Focus on your internship and stop worrying about things you can't control.
I'd believed her.
I'd spent the next three weeks working harder, convinced my family was waiting for me to come home and share good news.
Meanwhile, someone had apparently intercepted a legal letter addressed to me.
“Can you tell me what happens if somebody signs a document using my name without my permission?””
“That depends on the circumstances, the document, and whether anyone attempted to use it to obtain money or transfer property. Bring everything you have. Don't confront anyone further until we've reviewed it.””
I glanced at the bedroom door.
“I think the confrontation already started.””
“Then please be careful.””
When I hung up, I remained standing in the middle of the room.
My father had signed something.
That didn't necessarily mean he knew Laura had forged my name. It didn't prove he'd tried to steal anything from me.
But it meant he had been involved in something serious enough that an attorney wanted to see me immediately.
I couldn't decide which possibility frightened me more: that my father had knowingly betrayed me, or that he'd trusted Laura so blindly that he'd signed away my interests without understanding what he was doing.
A knock sounded against the door.
“Emily?””
Dad.
I quickly placed the papers inside the envelope.
“Come in.””
He entered slowly, holding two mugs of tea.
For a moment, he looked at the narrow bed, the boxes beside the wall, and the photographs arranged on the windowsill.
His expression changed.
“I didn't realize how small this room was.””
I almost laughed.
“It's the guest room, Dad.””
“I know.””
He placed one mug on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I wanted to talk to you.””
“So did I.””
His eyes fell on the envelope.
“Did you call the attorney?””
“Yes.””
He looked startled.
“What did he say?””
“That I should bring the documents to his office tomorrow.””
Dad nodded, rubbing his hands together.
“That's probably sensible.””
I waited.
He didn't say anything else.
Finally, I asked, “Why did you sign that authorization?””
He looked at the floor.
“Laura told me it was a routine document.””
“Routine documents don't authorize people to act on someone else's behalf without their knowledge.””
“I didn't know she'd put your name on it.””
“But you signed it.””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
He took a long breath.
“Because I trusted her.””
The answer was so simple that it made me angrier than an elaborate lie would have.
“You trusted her more than you trusted me?””
“That's not fair, Emily.””
“Then explain it to me.””
He stared at his hands.
“About two months ago, Laura found some paperwork in my office. It concerned your grandmother's estate. She said there might be money available that could help us manage the mortgage.””
“Why would my grandmother's estate help with your mortgage?””
“Because the trust had an interest connected to the property.””
“What interest?””
“I didn't understand all the legal details.””
“You signed something you didn't understand?””
His jaw tightened.
“I thought I was authorizing Laura to speak with the attorney. Nothing more.””
I pulled the document from the envelope and showed him the page.
“This says the authorization concerns my property interests.””
He read it.
His face slowly lost its color.
“I've never seen this version.””
“But your signature is there.””
“Yes.””
“Did Laura ask you to sign a blank page?””
He looked away.
My heart sank.
“Dad.””
“She told me the attorney needed a preliminary signature so he could discuss the estate with us. There were several pages. I was tired, and I signed where she pointed.””
I stared at him.
“You signed legal paperwork without reading it.””
“I thought I could trust my wife.””
“And what about your daughter?””
He flinched.
I immediately regretted the way I'd said it, but I couldn't take the words back.
Dad set his mug down.
“I never intended to hurt you.””
“Then why didn't you tell me about the trust?””
“I thought we'd have time to sort everything out.””
“Time for what?””
He didn't answer.
I looked at him more closely.
His shirt was wrinkled. His hands trembled slightly around the mug. There was a faint red mark across his wrist, as though he'd been gripping something too tightly.
“Dad, what's really happening with the mortgage?””
He rubbed his face.
“We're behind on payments.””
“How far behind?””
“Several months.””
I stared at him.
“You told me the mortgage was almost paid off.””
“It was. Then the furnace broke, the roof needed repairs, and we had some other expenses.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because you were in college. You were working hard. I didn't want you worrying about money.””
I swallowed.
“I could have helped.””
“I know.””
“You let me believe everything was fine.””
“I was trying to protect you.””
I shook my head.
“Everyone keeps saying that while making decisions behind my back.””
He looked at me, pain filling his eyes.
For a moment, I saw the father I remembered.
Then he said something that changed the conversation entirely.
“Laura told me your grandmother's trust might be able to help us save the house.””
I stared at him.
“So that's why you signed?””
“I wanted to keep the house. It's the only home we've had since your mother died.””
“And you thought using my inheritance was the answer?””
“I thought the trust had been established partly to protect the family.””
“It was established for me.””
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
I pulled the envelope back toward me.
“Did Laura tell you that the trust was supposed to pay off the mortgage?””
“She said there was a provision that might allow the property to remain in the family.””
“Did you read it?””
“No.””
“Did you ask the attorney?””
“Laura said she'd already spoken to him.””
I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.
“What was the attorney's name?””
Dad hesitated.
“Whitmore, I think.””
I stared at him.
“Richard Whitmore?””
He nodded slowly.
“Why?””
“Because Mr. Whitmore says he sent me a letter three weeks ago, and someone at this house signed for it.””
Dad's expression changed.
“What letter?””
“A letter about the trust. Addressed to me.””
He stood so abruptly that tea spilled over the rim of his mug.
“Laura told me the attorney hadn't contacted us yet.””
I looked at him.
“And you believed her.””
He didn't defend himself this time.
Instead, he walked toward the door.
“I'm going to ask her about this.””
“Dad, wait.””
He stopped.
“Please don't let her talk you into another signature.””
His shoulders sagged.
“I won't.””
He left the room.
I sat on the bed, listening to his footsteps cross the hallway.
Then I heard Laura's voice rise from upstairs.
“What do you mean, she called the attorney?””
Dad's answer was too quiet to make out.
Laura spoke again, louder.
“You had no right to let her see those papers!””
A door slammed.
I waited, my pulse pounding.
My phone buzzed.
An unfamiliar number.
The message contained a photograph of an envelope, its edges yellowed with age. On the front, in my grandmother's handwriting, were the words:
For Emily, when she's ready to know the truth.
Beneath the photograph was a single sentence.
Your grandmother left something out of the official file, and Laura knows where it is.
May you like
Then another message appeared.
Ask your father what happened the night your mother died.
