Chapter 6 - MY MOTHER'S SIGNATURE
I had not spoken to my mother, Caroline Hayes, in four months.
That was not unusual.
Our relationship came in seasons.
Warm when she wanted something.
Cold when I set boundaries.
She had never liked Grant much.
Which made her signature on a document benefiting people around him even stranger.
I called her.
She answered cheerfully.
“Evelyn!”
“Did you notarize an option agreement involving Mercer Capital?”
Silence.
Then:
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I sent the document.
She called back three minutes later.
“Oh.”
Not the response I wanted.
“Oh?”
“Grant brought that.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
My chest tightened.
“What did he tell you?”
“That you needed a witness because you were traveling.”
“A notary does not notarize absent signatures.”
“I know.”
“Apparently not.”
She became defensive.
“He showed me a video.”
I froze.
“What video?”
“You signing.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“Send it.”
The clip arrived.
There I was.
Sitting at my home-office desk.
Pen in hand.
My voice:
“Yes, I’ve reviewed the option agreement.”
Then I appeared to sign.
The video looked real.
But it wasn’t.
I knew exactly when the original footage had been taken.
Six months earlier, I recorded a routine consent for the purchase of a small logistics company.
Same blouse.
Same desk.
Same lamp.
Someone altered the audio and replaced the visible document.
A deepfake.
Not perfect.
Good enough for my mother.
“Who gave Grant the video?”
“Scott.”
Of course.
“Did you speak with me?”
“No.”
“Did that not bother you?”
“He said you were on a plane.”
I closed my eyes.
Every fraud in this story depended on people deciding verification was inconvenient.
My mother began crying.
“I thought I was helping.”
“You were helping someone transfer part of my company.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You didn’t ask.”
Silence.
That line was becoming the theme of my life.
Then Caroline said:
“There’s something else.”
Of course.
“Scott paid me.”
My eyes opened.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“For notarizing?”
“He called it consulting.”
I nearly laughed.
My own mother accepted ten thousand dollars not to ask questions about my signature.
“Where did the money come from?”
“I don’t know.”
We did.
By evening, my CFO traced the transfer.
Blue Current Hospitality.
Jessica again.
But Blue Current had received the money from Northbridge Equity.
Northbridge was funding Jessica.
Jessica was sleeping with Grant.
Scott was manipulating Grant.
Peter was feeding him valuation fantasies.
They were not simply exploiting my husband’s resentment.
They were building a path into Mercer Capital.
Grant was the door.
I was the lock.
And they believed forged signatures were the key.
Then Claire found something inside my corporate email archive.
A calendar invitation I had never seen.
Private dinner.
Six months earlier.
Attendees:
Grant Mercer.
Scott Landry.
Peter Sloan.
Jessica Vale.
And one person who made no sense.
Thomas Mercer.
Grant’s father.
Thomas had been dead for three years.
I stared at the calendar.
“That’s impossible.”
Claire agreed.
But attached to the event was a PDF.
A scanned letter signed by Thomas before his death.
It contained one sentence:
May you like
My son is entitled to the Mercer fortune, and I have made arrangements to ensure he receives it.
Grant’s father had apparently been planning something long before Jessica ever stepped onto my yacht.
