Chương 11
“She tried to pull them away.”
“Did they tear?”
“One page did.”
“Where are the papers now?”
“I don’t know.”
That immediately bothered me.
“Did the police take them?”
“No one asked.”
I stood.
Dad sighed.
“Claire.”
“I’m not investigating.”
“You’re standing like you are.”
“I’m calling Hart.”
“She said not to.”
“She said not to investigate.”
“This is investigating.”
“This is identifying missing evidence.”
Dad gave me a look.
“Those sound suspiciously similar.”
I took out my phone anyway.
Before I could call, Hart’s name appeared on the screen.
I answered.
“Please tell me you’re about to make my life easier.”
“No.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
Her voice was controlled but tighter than before.
“We found paperwork in the house.”
I looked at Dad.
“What kind?”
“That is where things become interesting.”
“Hart.”
“Your brother gave written consent for officers to secure items in plain view related to tonight’s assault while we work through the rest properly.”
I waited.
“On the kitchen floor, near broken glass, officers found torn financial documents.”
Dad watched my face.
“One document appears to be a durable financial power of attorney.”
“Appears?”
“It is incomplete.”
“How incomplete?”
“Missing a signature page.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose signature page?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I moved toward the corner of the bay and lowered my voice.
“Dad says Vanessa was trying to get him to sign papers tonight.”
“That aligns with some of what we’re seeing.”
“Some?”
“There’s also a photocopy of an older estate document.”
I glanced at Dad.
He had heard enough to understand.
“What does it say?”
“I’m not reading the contents over the phone.”
“Fair.”
Hart paused.
“We also located a manila folder in the kitchen trash.”
“Trash?”
“Under food waste.”
That sounded less accidental.
“What was inside?”
“A printed letter bearing Dr. Patel’s name.”
My pulse quickened.
“The fake medical letter.”
“Possibly.”
“Rebecca called you?”
“She did.”
“Good.”
Hart continued.
“The letter found at the house matches the language she described.”
I stared at the wall.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
I heard paper moving on her end.
“There are handwritten notes on the back.”
“Whose handwriting?”
“We’re not making that conclusion tonight.”
“What do they say?”
Hart went silent for a beat.
“Claire, I’m telling you this because it directly concerns your safety and your father’s.”
That wiped away the rest of my irritation.
“Go ahead.”
“One note says, ‘Claire contests everything.’”
I felt my spine straighten.
“Another says, ‘Need Daniel firmly on our side before filing.’”
Dad could see the change in my face.
He mouthed, What?
I held up a hand.
Hart continued.
“The last line is shorter.”
I waited.
“It says, ‘If T refuses, use incident.’”
The hospital sounds seemed to recede.
“What incident?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked at my father’s bruised arm.
“Yes, we do.”
“Maybe.”
“Hart.”
“Maybe.”
Her voice hardened.
“Do not turn suspicion into fact.”
I forced myself to breathe.
“Was tonight planned?”
“We do not know that.”
“The note says use incident.”
“It could refer to something else.”
“It could.”
“And right now, that distinction matters.”
I closed my eyes.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
“I liked you better fifteen minutes ago.”
“No, you didn’t.”
That almost made me laugh.
Then Hart said, “There is one more problem.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“The signature page from the power of attorney may not be missing.”
I frowned.
“You just said it wasn’t there.”
“It wasn’t at the house.”
“Then where is it?”
“We think Vanessa may have brought it to the station.”
I looked toward the emergency department entrance as though she could somehow appear.
“Why?”
“Because Officer Davis found a folded document beneath the chair where she was sitting.”
My mouth went dry.
“Signed?”
“Yes.”
“By Dad?”
“That’s what the signature says.”
Dad saw my expression.
His face changed.
Hart continued.
“There’s also a notary stamp.”
I sat down slowly.
“Rebecca’s notary?”
“We’re working on that.”
Dad whispered, “What is it?”
I looked at him.
Hart said, “Claire, ask your father one question for me.”
“What?”
“Has he ever signed his full name with a middle initial?”
I stared at Dad.
“Dad, when you sign legal documents, do you use Thomas J. Mercer?”
He frowned.
“No.”
Hart exhaled on the phone.
“What does he use?”
I already knew.
Dad answered anyway.
“Tom Mercer.”
I repeated it.
Hart went quiet.
Then she said, “The signature says Thomas J. Mercer.”
Dad heard her through the phone.
His face went pale.
He whispered, “That’s how Vanessa writes my name on Christmas cards.”
Hart did not say anything for several seconds.
Neither did I.
Dad stared at the wall as though the answer had been waiting there for him all night.
Finally Hart said, “That does not prove who signed it.”
“I know.”
“It matters.”
“I know.”
Dad looked at me.
“What happens now?”
I lowered the phone.
“Hart?”
“I heard him.”
Her voice softened.
“Mr. Mercer, the document will be preserved, and nobody is going to treat it as legitimate just because your name appears on it.”
Dad nodded even though she could not see him.
I put the phone back to my ear.
“Do you need anything else from us?”
“Not tonight unless his condition changes.”
“What about Vanessa?”
“She is still at the department.”
“Daniel?”
“With counsel.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Do they know about the signature page?”
“Not from me yet.”
“Good.”
Hart caught the implication immediately.
“Claire.”
“I said good.”
“Do not test them yourself.”
“I’m at a hospital with terrible coffee and a seventy-three-year-old man who keeps trying to negotiate his discharge.”
Dad said, “I can hear you.”
Hart almost laughed.
“Keep it that way.”
She hung up.
Dad looked at me.
“Do you think she forged it?”
“Yes.”
He flinched.
I regretted answering so quickly.
Then he surprised me.
“So do I.”
The words seemed to cost him something.
He looked down at his swollen arm.
“She practices handwriting.”
“What?”
“Vanessa.”
He shrugged carefully.
May you like
“She writes everyone’s names beautifully on Christmas envelopes.”
I waited.
