Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE I NEVER WROTE
By midnight, I knew three things.
One: my engagement was over.
Two: Everett had forged my signature.
Three: the forged document had been notarized by his mother.
Joanne Cross.
Kelsey read the page twice.
Then looked up.
“His mother notarized this?”
“Yes.”
“Your future mother-in-law helped steal your grandmother’s ranch?”
“That appears to be where the evening is headed.”
Dad stopped pacing.
“Call the police.”
Caleb lifted a hand.
“We need to be precise.”
My father glared.
“He forged her signature.”
“If he did, yes.”
“If?”
Caleb stayed calm.
“I’m on Madison’s side. But this loan passed through two institutions. We need records, emails, and the original notary journal.”
I stared at him.
“Why are you helping me?”
Something changed in his face.
“Because I saw the paperwork nine days ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“The same day I found out about the forty-five thousand?”
He nodded.
“I called Everett.”
“And?”
“He told me you had signed privately.”
“You believed him?”
“At first.”
That hurt.
Caleb continued quickly.
“Then I reviewed the signature page. Something felt wrong.”
“What?”
“You sign your middle initial with a loop.”
I stared.
“You remember my signature?”
“You signed the original purchase letter in my office six months ago.”
That was unexpectedly specific.
“The forged one doesn’t have the loop.”
He had noticed what my fiancé apparently believed no one would.
“What did you do?”
“I requested the original.”
“And?”
“The lender refused without authorization.”
“So you came to my wedding?”
“I was going to speak to you tomorrow.”
He looked toward the reception.
“Then tonight happened.”
Kelsey muttered, “Understatement of the year.”
Caleb handed me another page.
The loan beneficiary was Camille Porter Photography LLC.
But money had not gone only to her studio.
Seventy thousand dollars had been transferred to another company.
Cross Family Holdings.
Everett’s company.
My stomach turned.
“This wasn’t just him helping Camille.”
“No,” Caleb said.
“He used her business as part of the transaction.”
Dad’s face hardened.
“How much money did he take?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at the forged signature again.
The ranch belonged to my grandmother Ruth Hale.
Technically, she had transferred it into a trust for me two years earlier after her stroke.
It was fifty-six acres outside Johnson City.
Not extravagant.
But old.
Beautiful.
Our family had held it for four generations.
Everett knew exactly what it meant to me.
My phone vibrated from an unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then a message appeared.
MADISON, PLEASE DON’T GO TO THE POLICE UNTIL I EXPLAIN.
Camille.
Kelsey read it over my shoulder.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Another message came.
THE MONEY WASN’T FOR MY STUDIO.
Then:
EVERETT USED MY COMPANY BECAUSE HE THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER CHECK.
I typed:
USED IT FOR WHAT?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Returned.
Finally:
TO COVER A DEBT HE OWES MY BROTHER.
My heart pounded.
WHAT DEBT?
May you like
Camille answered with one sentence:
THE KIND PEOPLE GET HURT OVER.
