Chapter 8 - THE NOTARY REMEMBERED MY FACE
The woman who notarized my forged signature remembered me.
Or rather, she remembered someone pretending to be me.
Rachel traced the document through county records.
A transfer deed had been prepared three months earlier but had not yet been officially recorded.
The proposed seller was me.
The proposed buyer was V.C. Holdings.
Sale price: $410,000.
My land had recently appraised at more than four times that.
If the zoning proposal passed, perhaps ten times that.
The deed contained my name.
My driver’s-license number.
A signature resembling mine.
And a notarization from a woman named Patricia Wells.
Rachel and I met Patricia at her small accounting office forty minutes outside the city.
She looked at the copy and immediately frowned.
“I remember this.”
My pulse jumped.
“You notarized it?”
“Yes.”
“Was I here?”
Patricia studied my face.
“No.”
One word.
Everything changed.
She opened an old appointment calendar.
“A man came with a woman. He said she was his wife.”
“Liam?”
Rachel showed her a photograph.
Patricia nodded.
“That’s him.”
My throat tightened.
“And the woman?”
“She had dark hair. Glasses. She barely spoke.”
“Did you check identification?”
Patricia’s face flushed.
“She gave me a license.”
“With my name?”
“Yes.”
“Did she look like me?”
“Similar height. Similar age. The photograph looked like her.”
A fake license.
A fake Emma.
Patricia suddenly looked frightened.
“I thought everything was legitimate.”
Rachel remained calm.
“Did the woman sign in front of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Carter say anything unusual?”
Patricia thought for several seconds.
“He seemed impatient. He kept asking whether the deed could be filed immediately.”
“Why wasn’t it?”
“There was a legal-description error. The parcel number was missing a digit. I told them it needed correction.”
That tiny clerical error may have saved my inheritance.
On the drive home, I stared out the window.
Who had pretended to be me?
Vanessa denied it immediately.
And Patricia confirmed Vanessa’s photograph was not the woman.
So Liam had recruited someone else.
Someone who could obtain fake identification.
Someone willing to commit fraud.
Someone who resembled me.
That evening, Noah came over with takeout.
“We need to think about who Liam trusts.”
“He barely trusts anyone.”
“Coworkers?”
“Maybe.”
“Family?”
I almost dismissed it.
Then I remembered the anniversary dinner.
The way Diane, Liam’s mother, had looked at the table.
Horrified.
But not surprised enough.
I opened my phone and pulled up a family photograph.
Diane stood beside Liam’s cousin, Melissa.
Dark hair.
Thirty-four.
Five-foot-six.
Roughly my build.
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
Noah saw my expression.
“What?”
I showed him the picture.
“Melissa.”
Noah went silent.
His cousin Melissa worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Suddenly, the fake driver’s license was no longer difficult to explain.
We showed Patricia a photo array through Rachel.
She pointed to Melissa.
“That’s her.”
Noah sat back as though someone had punched him.
“My cousin impersonated you.”
But another question bothered me.
Why would Melissa risk her job and possible criminal charges for Liam?
The answer arrived the next morning.
Rachel obtained records connected to V.C. Holdings.
Six weeks after the attempted deed transfer, the company had paid $75,000 toward a mortgage.
The borrower was Melissa Carter.
Liam had bought her cooperation.
When Noah confronted Diane, their mother began crying.
“I told Liam to stop.”
Noah froze.
“You knew?”
“Not everything.”
“What did you know?”
Diane covered her face.
“I knew Melissa signed something.”
My heart dropped.
“You knew she impersonated me?”
“I didn’t know what the document was.”
“Did you know about Vanessa?”
Diane looked away.
That was answer enough.
Then she said something none of us expected.
“Vanessa wasn’t Liam’s first affair.”
Silence.
I felt strangely numb.
“How many?”
Diane shook her head.
“I only know of one other.”
“When?”
“Before Hailey.”
“How long before?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Emma... it started before your wedding.”
May you like
And suddenly the marriage I had spent two years mourning had become something even more frightening.
I did not know whether it had ever been real at all.
