Chapter 10: Someone Had Been Using My Name for Five Years
I stared at the signature until the letters blurred.
My name.
My handwriting, or something close enough to fool a stranger.
And a date that placed me three hundred miles away from Atlanta, working an overnight shift at a warehouse in Nashville.
"That's not my signature," I said.
Michael enlarged the photograph again.
"The ink and handwriting will need forensic examination. We shouldn't assume the signature is yours simply because it resembles yours.""
"But someone used my name to enter that site.""
"That's what the log suggests.""
Dad gripped the arms of his wheelchair.
"Why would anyone do that?""
Nobody answered.
Vanessa sat beside me, staring at the screen.
"Could someone have copied your signature from another document?""
"Possibly," Michael replied.
"But we need to establish who had access to those documents and whether the site log was altered.""
I rubbed my face.
"I signed a lot of paperwork when I was younger. College forms, bank documents, insurance applications. My father kept copies of everything important.""
Dad looked up sharply.
"Your old papers were in my study.""
"Exactly. Anyone who entered your house could have copied my signature.""
His expression changed.
"Edward had a key to the house.""
The words hung in the air.
"Why?"" I asked.
Dad looked uncomfortable.
"After your mother died, I had difficulty managing everything alone. Edward offered to help. He had a spare key for emergencies.""
I thought about the years when Edward had dropped by our house with groceries, repaired the porch railing, and helped Dad navigate the insurance paperwork after the accident.
I'd considered him almost an uncle.
Now every memory felt contaminated.
"Did he ever take anything from the study?""
"Not that I noticed.""
Michael closed the photograph.
"We need to focus on evidence. I'll arrange for the original site log to be examined, and we'll obtain records establishing Daniel's location on the date in question.""
"I can prove where I was," I said.
"My employer kept time sheets. I had a rented room, and my supervisor remembers me.""
"Good. Preserve whatever records you can locate.""
Dad stared at the table.
"Margaret's name being used at the site cannot be a coincidence.""
"Maybe Edward wanted it to look as though my mother was involved," I suggested.
"Or someone wanted us to believe she was.""
Vanessa looked at him.
"Why would anyone implicate a dead woman?""
Dad's voice dropped.
"Because she can't defend herself.""
That answer silenced us.
Michael gathered the documents into separate folders.
"There's another possibility. If someone fabricated the site entry using Margaret's name and Daniel's signature, they may have wanted to create an alternative explanation for the accident. But until we verify the original record, that's only a theory.""
I stood and paced toward the window.
Five years earlier, I'd received the call about Dad's fall while I was finishing a warehouse shift in Nashville. I'd driven through the night, arriving at the hospital just before sunrise.
Edward had been waiting in the corridor.
He'd hugged me, bought me coffee, and told me my father was lucky to be alive.
He'd helped me fill out forms while Dad was in surgery.
He'd even paid for my hotel room.
I'd thanked him.
I'd called him a good man.
Now I wondered whether he'd been helping me—or making sure I never asked the wrong questions.
My phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number.
The message contained only six words.
*Stop investigating your father's accident.*
A second message arrived immediately.
*Your mother would have wanted you to.*
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I showed Michael.
He photographed the messages and asked me not to reply.
"Can you identify the number?"" I asked.
"We'll request information through the appropriate legal channels.""
Dad looked furious.
"They're threatening my son now?""
"They want us frightened," Michael replied.
"That doesn't mean we should give them the reaction they're looking for.""
Vanessa was staring at the phone.
"I recognize that phrasing.""
I turned toward her.
"What do you mean?""
"My father used to say that whenever someone questioned his decisions. He'd tell us that your mother understood the business and wouldn't have wanted anyone digging into the past.""
Dad went still.
"When did he say that?""
"Several times after the accident. Once, when I asked why he'd stopped visiting you, he said he couldn't bear to see what had happened to his friend.""
Dad closed his eyes.
"He stopped visiting because I asked him to explain the missing money.""
Vanessa lowered her head.
"I didn't know.""
"I believe you didn't know everything," Dad said.
"But I need you to understand something. Your father has spent years making sure everyone heard his version of events first.""
She nodded slowly.
Then Michael's phone rang.
It was the bank.
He listened, took notes, and asked several questions before ending the call.
"They've approved supervised access to the safe for eight tomorrow morning. Their security team will be present, and the contents will be documented before anything is removed.""
Dad exhaled.
"Finally.""
"However, they've also identified the person who submitted the attempted access request.""
"Who?"" I asked.
Michael looked at Vanessa.
"An attorney who represents Mitchell Development Group.""
She shook her head.
"I've never met him.""
"His name is Gregory Shaw," Michael said.
"He filed the request on Edward's behalf.""
Dad's expression hardened.
"I know Shaw. He handled the company's financing years ago.""
"Did he know about the original agreement?""
"Yes. He helped draft one of the amendments.""
Michael exchanged a glance with Dad.
"If Shaw knew the original terms, he may have known exactly what Edward needed to obtain or destroy.""
My phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained a photograph.
It showed the entrance to Michael's office building.
The picture had been taken recently, from across the street.
Beneath it were the words:
*Tomorrow morning, the safe won't matter.*
I looked toward the dark windows.
Someone had been watching us.
Dad noticed my expression.
"What is it, Daniel?""
I handed him the phone.
He studied the photograph, then looked at Michael.
"We need to change the plan.""
Michael nodded.
"I'll coordinate with the bank's security team and arrange a secure route. No one will access the box without proper authorization.""
Vanessa stood.
"Then I'm coming with you.""
I looked at her.
"Why?""
"Because the documents being used to transfer the properties have my name on them. If my father forged my signature, I want to see the original evidence.""
"And if he didn't?""
She swallowed.
"Then I'll face that truth, too.""
Dad regarded her quietly.
"Tomorrow may change everything you believe about your family.""
She lifted her chin.
"Then tomorrow I'll finally know what kind of family I have.""
As we prepared to leave, Michael received one final email from Thomas Reed.
It contained a photograph of a second page from the construction log.
At the bottom was an entry dated two days after Dad's accident.
The words were faint, but Michael read them aloud.
Original safety inspection records transferred to private storage at the direction of E. Mitchell.
Then he looked at Dad.
"Richard, the records may not have been destroyed after all.""
Dad stared at the screen.
"Where are they?""
Michael read the final line.
The storage location was listed as a private warehouse outside Atlanta.
The registered owner wasn't Mitchell Development Group.
It was Carter Holdings.
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My father had unknowingly owned the place where the evidence against his former friend might have been hidden for five years.
And someone had just paid the warehouse company to empty it.
