I was helping my mother carry a bowl of salad toward the dining room when I saw it.
At the side table near the windows, half-hidden by a decorative runner and a stack of placemats, were several sheets of paper spread out in a rushed little cluster. My mother and Sabrina had clearly been huddled over them before I came in. One page had been turned slightly sideways, and in the second before my mother noticed where I was looking and slid a linen napkin over the stack, I caught a header, my own name, and a signature that looked enough like mine to fool a stranger—but not enough to fool me.
It was my handwriting the way a mirror version might be if the mirror hated me.
Not close. Not natural. Not mine.
My pulse didn’t spike all at once. It struck in waves. First disbelief, then clarity, then a cold, heavy steadiness that settled under my ribs so fast it almost felt like relief. Because if there was one thing worse than suspecting your family might be capable of something, it was uncertainty. Seeing that forged signature erased the uncertainty. It told me exactly what room I was in.
