Chương 7
“That is not the same sentence.”
“No, but it was the sentence you wanted.”
My father looked toward me.
“Call Eleanor.”
“I already did.”
Patricia whipped around.
“You called a lawyer on me?”
“She is Dad’s lawyer.”
“She has always hated me.”
My father sighed.
“Eleanor doesn’t hate anybody.”
“She despises me.”
“She despises disorganization.”
“That is exactly what she would say.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.
All three of them looked at me.
“Sorry.”
Nobody said anything.
I took out my phone.
Patricia pointed at it.
“Do not call the police.”
“I’m calling Eleanor.”
“Daniel.”
“I’m not making promises.”
That was when she began crying.
Not loudly.
No collapse.
Her shoulders just folded inward, and she pressed the heel of one hand against her mouth.
I had seen my mother cry at funerals, weddings, and once when a golden retriever died in a movie.
This was different.
There was no attempt to make anyone comfort her.
Vanessa moved first anyway.
She took a step toward her.
My father said, “Don’t.”
Vanessa stopped.
Patricia lowered her hand.
“You think I did this for myself.”
My father looked at the stamp.
“What else am I supposed to think?”
“I was trying to hold everything together.”
“By forging me?”
“By making sure nothing fell apart while you were in rehab.”
“What was falling apart?”
She looked at Vanessa.
“Everything.”
Vanessa recoiled.
“Don’t put this on me.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally just looked at me.”
“You were losing the house.”
“That was my problem.”
“You made it mine.”
“No.”
“You called me every morning.”
“Because I was scared.”
“You came here with contractor invoices.”
“You said you could help.”
“I said I would talk to Dad.”
“And I did.”
My father frowned.
“You talked to me about what?”
“The Wellesley house.”
“When?”
“The first week you came home.”
He looked at me.
His expression was blank.
That scared me more than anger.
“I don’t remember.”
Patricia seized on it immediately.
“Exactly.”
He turned back to her.
“That does not prove your version.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“But it doesn’t prove yours either.”
Silence spread through the room.
There it was.
The part Eleanor had warned me about.
My father’s memory was damaged.
Not destroyed.
Not useless.
But damaged enough that certainty could become a weapon in either direction.
I looked at the signature stamp.
“When was that made?”
Patricia wiped under one eye.
“February.”
Dad’s stroke had been in January.
“Who made it?”
“A print shop.”
“Which one?”
She hesitated.
“Mom.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You had a custom signature stamp made seven months ago and don’t remember where?”
“It was online.”
“That can be traced.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She stared at me.
“You sound pleased.”
“I’m trying not to sound terrified.”
That shut her up.
I picked up one of the intact forms.
It authorized a transfer of forty-eight thousand dollars from Whitmore Logistics to Whitmore Property Management.
My father’s signature appeared at the bottom.
The stamp was good.
Too good.
If I had seen the page yesterday, I might not have noticed anything wrong.
“What about my signature?”
Patricia looked confused.
“What?”
“Some transfers have mine too.”
Her eyes moved toward Vanessa.
Vanessa saw it.
“Oh, no.”
I looked at my sister.
“Did you forge me?”
“No.”
“Vanessa.”
“I said no.”
“Did you have access to my finance credentials?”
Her mouth tightened.
“Years ago.”
“Did you still use them?”
“No.”
“Did Blake?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Were my credentials saved anywhere in this house?”
She did not answer.
I waited.
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“It means I don’t know.”
Patricia sat on the edge of the desk.
“I never used Daniel’s signature.”
My father looked at her.
“Did you use the stamp on company documents?”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“Maybe twelve.”
Marcus had found twenty-six suspicious transfers.
“Only twelve?”
“I think.”
“Did anyone else know about the stamp?”
Patricia’s eyes moved again.
This time not to Vanessa.
To the hallway.
I followed her gaze.
“What?”
She rubbed both palms against her sweater.
“Martin.”
My father straightened.
“Martin Kell?”
She nodded.
The name settled into the room differently than the others.
Martin had been Whitmore Logistics’ chief financial officer for nine years.
He had attended Christmas dinners.
He had driven my father home after a minor surgery.
He sent my mother flowers every anniversary of my grandfather’s death because he remembered the date when most relatives did not.
“How did Martin know?”
I asked.
“He saw me use it.”
“When?”
“In March.”
“For what?”
“A property transfer.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me I couldn’t do that.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“He was furious.”
My father leaned forward.
“And then?”
“I told him you had approved it verbally.”
“Had I?”
“You had said Vanessa needed help.”
My father slapped one hand against the chair arm.
“That is not authorization.”
Patricia flinched.
“Then what did Martin do?”
I asked.
“He said he would fix the paperwork.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“Fix it how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you give him the stamp?”
“No.”
“Did he touch it?”
“I don’t remember.”
Vanessa made a sound of frustration.
“Apparently nobody in this family remembers anything.”
Dad looked at her.
“You didn’t ask enough questions when the answers were paying your contractor.”
She looked down.
Fair hit.
I called Eleanor.
She answered before the second ring.
“We found a signature stamp.”
Her silence lasted less than a second.
“Do not touch it unnecessarily.”
“Too late.”
“Who handled it?”
“My mother.”
“Anyone else since you found it?”
“No.”
“Photograph where it is.”
I did.
“She says she had it made in February and used it on around twelve documents.”
“Does Thomas confirm authorizing that?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“She says Martin Kell saw her use it in March.”
Eleanor went quiet.
I heard keys tapping on her end.
“Daniel, Marcus found something while you were gone.”
I looked at my father.
May you like
“What?”
“One of the approvals tied to your user credentials originated from an IP address assigned to Whitmore Logistics headquarters.”
