Chapter 7: Monday Morning
Gerald Fitch's office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like carpet cleaner and old coffee.
His desk was covered in neat stacks of paper.
He shook my hand, then my father's, and got straight to it.
"The withdrawal was made fourteen months ago," he said, setting a document in front of us.
"The signature on the withdrawal form is yours, Ms.
Calloway.
Or rather — it is meant to look like yours."
He placed a second sheet beside it.
My actual signature from my bank records.
Even to my own eyes, the difference was visible.
The forged version was close — close enough to pass a casual check — but the loop on the *E* was wrong, and the *y* at the end of *Calloway* dropped at an angle I never used.
"A forensic handwriting analyst confirmed the discrepancy last Thursday," Fitch said.
"The withdrawal was fraudulent."
"Who submitted the form?" my father asked.
Fitch opened a second folder.
"The form was submitted in person at a branch in Kensington.
The branch manager at the time has since left that position.
We've been unable to reach him directly, but his name appears in the account records as the authorizing officer." He paused.
"His name is Geoffrey Marsh.
He is currently employed as a financial consultant."
He slid a business card across the table.
*Geoffrey Marsh — GRM Financial Consulting.*
*G.*
My father picked up the card.
He turned it over.
On the back, in Sandra's handwriting — the same looping script from the screenshot — was a mobile number.
"She kept his card," I said.
"In the filing cabinet," my father said.
"Behind her insurance papers.
Same place as your letter."
Fitch folded his hands.
"Mr.
Calloway, the evidence we have is sufficient to refer this matter to the police for investigation of fraud and forgery.
However, I want to be clear about what that means.
It will become a formal process.
It will likely become public.
And Ms.
Hartley" — he meant Sandra — "will have the opportunity to mount a defense."
"She'll say my father did it," I said.
"She's already started building that story."
"That's possible," Fitch said.
"Which is why the next step matters." He looked at my father.
"You mentioned a text message.
Sent anonymously."
"Yes." My father pulled out his phone and showed him the screenshot.
Fitch studied it.
"The sender of this message — do you know who it is?"
My father and I looked at each other.
"We believe it's Mia Hartley," my father said.
"Sandra's daughter."
Fitch nodded slowly.
"If Mia Hartley is willing to make a formal statement, this becomes significantly stronger.
The text alone can be traced — the number, the device.
But a statement from someone with direct knowledge of the arrangement is another matter entirely."
"She won't do it," I said.
"She won't go against her mother."
"You don't know that," my father said quietly.
"Dad — she destroyed my dress this morning.
She's not on our side."
"She sent me that screenshot," he said.
"She didn't have to do that.
She could have stayed quiet and let everything play out." He paused.
"I think she's more frightened than she is loyal."
I thought about Mia's face in the doorway that morning — not the smirk, but the moment after, when my father had turned to look at her.
The way she had gone still.
"She's nineteen," I said.
"Yes," my father said.
I looked at the business card on the table.
At the forged signature.
At the neat stack of documents that represented fourteen months of someone quietly dismantling what my mother had left for me.
"If Mia talks," I said, "what happens to her?"
Fitch considered the question carefully.
"That would depend on her level of involvement and the extent of her cooperation.
If she had no direct role in the fraud itself — if she only became aware of it afterward — cooperation would be viewed very favorably."
I sat back.
"I want to talk to her," I said.
"Before anything goes to the police.
I want to talk to her myself."
My father looked at me.
"Emma—"
"She's nineteen and she's scared and her mother used her.
I know what that feels like." I met his eyes.
"Let me talk to her first."
He was quiet for a long moment.
May you like
"One conversation," he said.
"I'll be outside."
