Chapter 4: The Signature
I stared at the photograph Malcolm had sent until the letters on the screen blurred.
There it was.
My name.
*Evelyn Carter.*
The signature looked almost perfect.
Almost.
But I knew my own handwriting.
The final loop in my “C” always curved inward. On this document, it curved outward.
A tiny difference.
A difference nobody would notice unless they had spent sixty-three years signing their name.
“I didn't sign that,” I said.
Tasha folded her arms.
“Of course you did.””
“No.””
“You're looking at your own signature.””
“My signature was forged.””
Her expression remained strangely calm.
“Why would anyone forge your signature?””
I looked at her.
“That is exactly what I'm trying to find out.””
Isaiah sat at the kitchen table, watching us.
I lowered my voice.
“Malcolm, where did you get that document?””
“The bank sent it to me.””
“Who requested it?””
“I did.””
“Does the bank have the original?””
“Yes.””
“Then we're going there.””
Tasha stepped between me and the hallway.
“You're not taking anything from this house.””
I pointed toward the folder.
“That belongs to Isaiah.””
“No. It belongs to the account holder.””
“Emily was the account holder.””
“Emily is dead.””
The cruelty of the sentence made Isaiah look down.
I walked toward Tasha.
“And that doesn't make her promises disappear.””
Tasha's jaw tightened.
“You don't know what it took to keep this family together.””
“I know what it takes to steal from a child.””
Her eyes flashed.
“You should be careful.””
“Why?””
“Because once you start digging, you may find things you don't want to know.””
I smiled without humor.
“I already found forty-eight thousand dollars missing.””
Then I looked at Isaiah.
“Get your backpack.””
Tasha laughed.
“Where are you taking him?””
“To my house.””
“He lives here.””
“For tonight, he doesn't.””
Isaiah stood immediately.
Tasha grabbed his wrist.
“Isaiah, you're staying.””
He winced.
I stepped forward.
“Let him go.””
“He is my stepson.””
“And I'm his grandmother.””
“He needs discipline.””
“He needs to feel safe.””
Tasha released him.
Isaiah ran to me.
As I helped him put on his jacket, he whispered, “Grandma, are you mad at Dad?””
I knelt.
“No.””
“Are you mad at Tasha?””
I looked over his shoulder.
“Yes.””
He nodded as if that answer made sense.
Outside, the evening air was cool.
I buckled Isaiah into my car and placed his broken backpack beside him.
Before I closed the door, my phone rang.
Malcolm.
“Mom,” he said, “there's something else.””
“What?””
“The bank checked the signature.””
My stomach tightened.
“And?””
“They said the document was signed in person.””
“By me?””
“No.””
“Then by whom?””
“They won't tell me without a subpoena.””
I closed my eyes.
“Malcolm, what aren't you telling me?””
His voice cracked.
“I found the person who deposited the first withdrawal.””
“Who?””
“I'll send you the name.””
A second later, my phone buzzed.
I looked down.
The name on the screen belonged to someone I knew.
Someone I had trusted for years.
Someone who had been at Emily's funeral.
Someone who had hugged Isaiah and promised to protect him.
May you like
*Tasha's mother.*
And beneath her name was a transaction for *$12,000*.
