Chapter 2: The Signature That Wasn't Mine
James held the envelope against his chest.
Brielle reached for it again, but he moved behind one of the dining chairs.
"Stop grabbing things from me," he said.
"You're making a scene!""
"Your mother is standing here without her wig because you ripped it off her head. I think the scene started before I arrived.""
Several guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
My sister, Eleanor, who had been sitting near the dance floor, hurried toward us.
"Margaret, darling, come sit down.""
She removed her shawl and placed it around my shoulders.
I held it tightly.
James pulled another document from the envelope.
It was a property transfer agreement.
At the top, in bold letters, were the words:
QUITCLAIM DEED.
Below that was the legal description of my house.
My house.
The same house where I had spent twenty-nine years building a life with Robert.
James scanned the final page.
"Margaret, did you sign this?""
I stared at the paper.
There was my name.
Margaret Wilson.
And beneath it was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
Almost.
"No," I said.
James looked up.
"Are you sure?""
"Absolutely.""
Brielle stepped forward.
"Mom, please don't do this here.""
I turned toward her.
"Do what?""
"You're making this look like something terrible happened.""
"Someone has transferred my house without my permission.""
Her lips tightened.
"It was just paperwork.""
"Paperwork?""
I felt my voice shaking.
"Brielle, I've been in chemotherapy appointments. I haven't even been able to drive myself to the grocery store some days. When exactly did I sign this?""
She looked toward Vanessa.
The bridesmaid suddenly became fascinated by her champagne glass.
James noticed.
"Why are you looking at Vanessa?""
"Because she's my friend, James. Unlike you, she actually supports me.""
James turned another page.
"There's a notary stamp here.""
I leaned closer.
The document listed a date from three weeks earlier.
On that particular day, I had been at Baylor University Medical Center receiving an infusion.
I remembered it clearly.
I had spent four hours in a treatment chair while a nurse named Denise repeatedly brought me warm blankets.
I hadn't been anywhere near a notary.
"This is fraudulent," I whispered.
James looked at Brielle.
"Who arranged this?""
She shook her head.
"I don't know what you're talking about.""
"Your name is on the accompanying instruction.""
"James, please.""
"Who arranged it?""
Brielle suddenly began crying.
Not the quiet, helpless crying I had seen when she was a little girl.
These were loud, dramatic sobs.
"You're ruining my wedding!"" she shouted.
I looked at her through my tears.
"Sweetheart, you took my hair off in front of two hundred people. I didn't ruin anything.""
Eleanor squeezed my shoulder.
"That's enough, Brielle.""
But James wasn't finished.
He had found another page.
This one carried the letterhead of an insurance company.
He read the title.
"Life insurance application.""
My stomach tightened.
"What?""
James turned the document around.
The policy amount was two million dollars.
The insured person was Margaret Wilson.
Me.
The application included my date of birth, home address, medical history, and a declaration stating that I had a terminal illness with an estimated life expectancy of less than six months.
My fingers went numb.
"I never applied for this.""
James examined the signature.
"Who is the beneficiary?""
He turned the page.
Then his expression changed.
It wasn't Brielle's name.
It wasn't even the name of someone I recognized.
The beneficiary was Richard Whitmore Investments LLC.
James's father's private investment company.
I looked across the ballroom.
Richard Whitmore was seated at the head table, wearing a navy suit and a silver tie.
He was sixty-seven, wealthy, influential, and accustomed to having people obey him.
When he noticed James holding the documents, he stood.
"Son," Richard called.
"Bring those papers over here.""
James didn't move.
"Did you know about this?""
Richard's jaw tightened.
"Not here.""
"That's not an answer.""
"James, this is a family matter.""
James looked at me.
"Margaret, I need you to see something.""
He showed me an email printed on the final page.
The sender was Brielle.
The recipient was Richard.
It had been sent three days before my wedding invitation arrived.
James read the first sentence.
"Once Mom is gone, we'll finally have enough money to cover what we did last year.""
I stared at my daughter.
"What did you do, Brielle?""
She covered her face.
"Mom, please.""
"What did you do?""
Richard approached us, his polished shoes clicking against the marble.
"Margaret, I think you've misunderstood the situation.""
I looked directly at him.
"Then explain it.""
He lowered his voice.
"Your daughter was trying to protect her future. You have a serious illness. These matters need to be handled before things become complicated.""
"Handled?""
I pointed toward the document.
"You forged my signature.""
Richard glanced at James.
"Careful what you say.""
James stepped between us.
"Don't threaten her.""
Richard gave a humorless laugh.
"I'm your father. You have no idea what you're getting involved in.""
James held up the insurance application.
"Why is your company the beneficiary of a policy on my mother-in-law's life?""
Richard's expression hardened.
"Because there are outstanding financial obligations.""
"What obligations?""
"Not here.""
James looked at the email again.
Then he read the next paragraph silently.
His face lost all color.
I reached for his arm.
"James, what is it?""
He looked at Brielle.
Then at his father.
Finally, he whispered:
"This isn't about the house.""
Brielle began shaking her head.
"James, don't.""
He held up the email.
"Last year, someone stole nearly nine hundred thousand dollars from a charitable foundation.""
Richard's face became expressionless.
James continued.
"And the money was transferred through an account belonging to...""
He stopped.
His eyes moved toward me.
"Margaret, do you know anything about the Wilson Family Trust?""
I shook my head.
It was Robert's trust.
The one he had established before his death.
The one I had never touched.
James turned to his father.
"Why was my wife's name on the transfer?""
Richard didn't answer.
Instead, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out his phone.
He made one call.
May you like
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Get the original medical file. The one with the second diagnosis.""
