Chapter 6: The Signature He Didn't Remember
Dad read the photograph three times.
The first time, he looked confused.
The second time, he looked angry.
The third time, he set the phone on the table as if it had become dangerous to touch.
I stood beside him, trying to see the document clearly.
The image was grainy, but I could make out the company letterhead, a date, and two signatures. One belonged to Derek. The other appeared to belong to Marcus Brooks.
My father.
“Did you sign it?”” I asked.
He didn't answer.
“Dad?””
“I don't remember signing this agreement.””
He picked up the phone again and enlarged the image.
The signature looked like his. The capital M, the long stroke beneath the surname, even the slight upward slant at the end.
But something about the page troubled him.
“The date is wrong,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?””
“I was out of state that week.””
He walked to the office, and I followed.
His desk was crowded with folders, invoices, and a framed photograph of our family taken before he married Celeste. In the picture, I was nine years old, sitting on his shoulders at a county fair, laughing so hard that my eyes were closed.
Dad moved the frame aside and opened a filing cabinet.
“Help me look for the original company calendar from that year,” he said.
I pulled out folders while he searched through a stack of old planners.
The paper smelled faintly of dust and printer toner. Every few seconds, he checked the date on the photograph.
Finally, I found a business travel itinerary tucked inside a blue folder.
“Dad, is this it?””
He took the page from me.
The itinerary showed a three-day trip to Nashville, including a hotel reservation and a scheduled meeting with a supplier. The dates matched the week printed on the agreement.
Dad stared at the itinerary.
“I was in Nashville.””
“Could you have signed it before you left?””
He shook his head.
“The agreement is dated Wednesday. I left Tuesday morning and didn't return until Friday night. If this was signed in person, it wasn't signed by me on that date.””
“Could someone have signed it for you?””
“Not without authorization. And I don't remember authorizing an agreement with Derek.””
He photographed the itinerary and sent it to Denise.
Then he called her.
“I need you to preserve that message and the original image file if you can obtain it,” he said.
“Don't treat the signature as proof of anything yet. I want the original document examined.””
He listened.
“Also, please have the reviewer compare the agreement with our archived records and the company's access logs.””
After ending the call, he sank into his desk chair.
I sat on the edge of the sofa.
“Do you think Celeste forged your signature?””
Dad looked at me.
“I don't know.””
“But you said you weren't there.””
“I said I wasn't there on that date. That doesn't prove who signed the document or how it was created. Someone could have used an earlier signature, the image could be altered, or there could be another explanation.””
He rubbed his forehead.
“We need evidence.””
I understood what he meant.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking about Celeste's reaction when she saw the account record. She hadn't looked confused. She hadn't asked what the document meant.
She had looked terrified.
“Dad, what if she kept the original agreement because she knew it was important?””
“That's possible.””
“What if she and Derek planned this together?””
He stared at the computer screen.
“That's something the reviewer will need to investigate.””
He reached for his phone again, but before he could make another call, it rang.
Celeste.
Dad watched the screen for several seconds before answering.
“Hello.””
Her voice came through loud enough for me to hear.
“Marcus, we need to talk.””
“We've been talking.””
“Not about the whole situation.””
“What haven't you told me?””
A long silence followed.
Then she said, “I know you received a photograph of an agreement.””
Dad's expression hardened.
“Who sent it to me?””
“I don't know.””
“Did you keep the original?””
She took a shaky breath.
“Yes.””
“Where is it?””
“At my sister's house.””
“Why?””
“Because I didn't know what you were going to do.””
Dad stood and walked to the window.
“Celeste, did you know about this agreement before you married me?””
“Yes.””
The answer came so quickly that he stopped moving.
“You knew?””
“I knew there was an agreement. I didn't know it would become this.””
“Become what?””
“This mess!””
Dad closed his eyes.
“Tell me exactly what happened.””
“I can't explain it over the phone.””
“Then come back and explain it in person.””
She hesitated.
“Will Nia be there?””
“Yes.””
“Marcus, I don't want to upset her any more than I already have.””
I looked down at my hands.
Dad's voice remained steady.
“Then tell the truth.””
Celeste began crying.
“I made a terrible decision.””
“That's not enough.””
“I know.””
“Did you and Derek use my signature without my permission?””
“No!””
Her response was immediate and forceful.
Dad fell silent.
“Then how did it get on the agreement?””
“I don't know how that photograph was made.””
“Celeste.””
“I'm telling you the truth!””
Dad turned toward me.
I could see the effort it took him not to shout.
“Do you have the original agreement?””
“Yes.””
“Will you bring it to the independent reviewer?””
Another silence.
Finally, she whispered, “Yes.””
“Then do that. Don't alter it, don't destroy it, and don't send me another photograph. Let the reviewer examine the original.””
“What about us?””
Dad looked toward the family photograph on his desk.
“I can't answer that today.””
He ended the call.
I sat very still.
“What happens if someone forged your signature?””
“Then the reviewer will need to establish how it happened and who was responsible. If the evidence supports it, I'll report it to the appropriate authorities.””
“And if Celeste knew?””
Dad didn't answer for a moment.
“Then I'll have to decide what that means for our marriage.””
I looked at the photograph of us at the county fair.
“Do you still love her?””
He seemed surprised by the question.
Then he sat beside me.
“Love doesn't switch off just because someone hurts you, Nia. But love doesn't mean you ignore what they've done, either.””
I leaned against him.
“I don't want our family to fall apart.””
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“Neither did I.””
We stayed like that for a while, listening to the hum of the computer.
Then Dad's email chimed.
Denise had sent an update.
He opened it and read silently.
“What is it?”” I asked.
“The reviewer found another record linked to the same agreement.””
“Another transfer?””
“Not exactly. It's an internal company authorization form.””
He clicked on the attachment.
The form listed the agreement number and a series of approval fields. One line contained a reference to a secondary user profile.
Dad frowned.
“I don't recognize this profile.””
“Does it belong to Celeste?””
“I don't know yet.””
He forwarded the document to Denise and asked her to verify the access records.
A few minutes later, she called back.
“Marcus,” she said, “I compared the profile reference with the records we have available. The identifier appears to be associated with an account created for administrative support.””
“Who had access to it?””
“We're checking the original access logs. I don't want to name anyone until we verify the account history.””
“Was the profile created before or after the agreement?””
“After the date shown on the agreement.””
Dad stared at the screen.
“Can you tell whether it was used to approve any of the disputed transactions?””
“There are entries that may be connected, but we need the underlying logs and bank records to establish that.””
“Get them.””
“I will.””
When the call ended, Dad leaned back.
The mystery was growing in a direction neither of us understood.
A second account.
A debt to Derek.
A company agreement carrying a signature Dad didn't remember making.
And now an administrative profile that might connect the transactions to someone inside the business.
I looked at the calendar on the wall.
It was still my birthday week.
A week ago, I'd been worried about my college applications and whether my grades were good enough for a scholarship.
Now I was sitting in my father's office, wondering whether someone had been quietly moving money through his company for years.
“Dad,” I said, “what if there are more accounts?””
He turned toward me.
“Then we'll find them.””
“What if the money is gone?””
His face softened.
“We'll pursue recovery through the proper channels. And even if recovering every dollar takes time, your future is not over because of what happened this week.””
I wanted to believe that.
I really did.
Then a message appeared on Dad's phone.
This time, the sender was Celeste.
I found the original agreement. There's something you need to see on the last page.
A second message arrived almost immediately.
I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd discover who actually prepared it.
Dad opened the message.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Then he looked at me.
“Nia, I need you to stay here while I call Denise.””
“What does the last page say?””
“I don't know yet.””
“Who prepared the agreement?””
He stared at the screen, where Celeste had attached a photograph of the document's final page.
At the bottom, beneath the signatures and the printed company name, was a field marked *Prepared By*.
The name beside it was not Derek's.
It was not Celeste's.
It was the name of the person who had managed my father's company accounts for nearly a decade.
The person he trusted to keep his business running when he was away.
The person who had sat at our dining table the previous afternoon, opened her laptop, and shown him the $68,420 report.
*Denise Carter.*
Dad's face went pale.
May you like
And before either of us could say a word, his phone began ringing again.
This time, the caller ID displayed Denise's name.
