I looked up.
“Who was the guest?”
Mr. Albright shifted. “The guest was signed in under Mrs. Mitchell’s authorization.”
I frowned. “Evelyn’s?”
“No,” he said carefully. “Yours.”
For a second, I thought I had misheard him.
“I have never been here,” I said.
He looked uncomfortable. “The system shows Iris Mitchell as the authorizing party.”
Daniel’s entire posture changed. “Produce the signature card.”
We were led into a records room where a staff member retrieved a scanned entry form. My name appeared on the line in neat, slanted handwriting.
It was almost mine.
Almost.
But Jason had made one mistake.
My signature had changed after my wrist injury seven years ago. The older version had a long sweeping C in Caldwell, a habit from before marriage. The forged version used that old movement, copied from documents I had signed before Jason knew my hand no longer moved that way comfortably.
