Chapter 4: The Signature That Should Not Exist
Malcolm held out his hand.
“Send me the signed copy.”
Karen slipped her phone into her pocket.
“This is a family matter.”
“I spent thirty-four years in bank compliance.
A forged signature is my business when it is placed in front of me.”
“It isn’t forged.”
Dad lowered himself into a chair.
Elaine pulled another chair close and sat beside him.
“Jack, look at me,” she said.
“Did anyone watch you sign?”
“I didn’t sign.”
Karen gave a short laugh.
“He cannot even remember his own appointments.”
Dad’s face tightened.
“What appointments?” I asked.
Karen turned toward him.
“Tell Rick why you went to the memory clinic.”
Dad looked down at his hands.
A dark line of engine oil remained beneath one thumbnail.
“Dad?”
“I forgot your mother’s anniversary,” he said.
“Then I left my keys in the refrigerator.”
Karen spread her hands.
“There.
He admitted it.”
Dad’s voice dropped.
“The doctor said I had normal age-related lapses.
He told me to sleep better and stop skipping meals.”
“You didn’t tell me,” I said.
“I knew you’d worry.”
Karen pointed at him.
“He hid a medical evaluation from you, Rick.
How can you trust his memory now?”
Dad pushed his chair back.
“Maybe she’s right.”
“Dad—”
“Maybe I’ve become another job for you.”
His voice broke on the last word.
He stood, but his knees caught the table and one of the foil trays slid toward the edge.
I caught it with both hands.
“You are not a job,” I said.
“You are my father.”
“And I let her use your name.”
“You trusted my wife.
That isn’t your shame.”
Elaine rose and opened the cupboard.
She took out three plates, then added two more.
“What are you doing?” Karen asked.
“Setting Thanksgiving dinner.”
“In this house?”
“With Jack.”
Elaine placed a plate in front of him.
“No decent guest allows the host to be thrown away.”
Dad covered his mouth.
Elaine rested her hand on his shoulder and waited until he looked at her.
“I would have been proud to sit across from you,” she said.
A tear ran down Dad’s cheek.
He wiped it away with the heel of his hand.
Karen stared at her mother.
“You are choosing him over your own daughter.”
“I am choosing the truth.”
Malcolm held out his phone again.
“Send the document.”
Karen refused to move.
I stepped closer.
“If it is legitimate, you have nothing to hide.”
She unlocked her phone and forwarded the file.
Malcolm enlarged the notary seal.
“Patricia Weller,” he read.
“Commission number 61482.”
“I used the notary Karen recommended,” Dad said.
“For my will two years ago.”
Malcolm called the number printed beneath the seal and put the phone on speaker.
A woman answered.
“Patricia Weller.”
“My name is Malcolm Reeves.
Did you notarize a power of attorney for Jack Dalton this week?”
“No.
I have never met anyone by that name.”
Karen reached for the phone.
Malcolm stepped away.
Patricia continued.
“My seal disappeared from my desk last month.
I reported it immediately.”
Karen’s face went pale.
“That proves nothing,” she said.
“Someone else handled the signing.”
“Not legally,” Malcolm replied.
His phone chimed.
He opened the document details and turned the screen toward me.
“The file was created three weeks ago—not Tuesday.”
I looked at Karen.
“Three weeks ago, you told me you were visiting your sister.”
“She needed me.”
Malcolm scrolled farther.
“The document came from a company called KRB Holdings.”
Dad frowned.
“What is that?”
Karen backed toward the hallway.
Malcolm read the final line aloud.
“The buyer transferred a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deposit to KRB Holdings yesterday.”
I stared at my wife.
“Who owns that company?”
May you like
Malcolm lifted his eyes from the screen.
“Karen does.”
