“On that exact date,” he said, “Jason Mitchell came to our house for dinner for the first time.”
Daniel’s phone buzzed again.
A second message from Priya appeared.
She had sent a photo from the scanned agreement.
At the bottom of the page was my mother’s supposed signature.
Beside it was the witness signature.
Evelyn Mitchell.
And under Evelyn’s name was one more signature.
Mine.
I stared at it, unable to speak.
Because sixteen years ago, I had never signed any agreement.
And the signature on the page was not the one Jason had forged in court documents.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
A version of my name written exactly the way I wrote it now.
A handwriting style I had not developed until after the injury to my wrist years later.
Daniel looked at the screen, then at me.
“That means this document wasn’t signed sixteen years ago,” he said quietly.
