Chapter 3 - A Sixteen-Year-Old Signature

"That's fake," Vanessa snapped.

On the screen, the date glowed above the signatures: October 18, seventeen years earlier. An agreement to transfer Bellwether Children's Center's trust holdings to Sterling Community Partners. My father had supposedly approved it. Four days later, auditors accused him of stealing the children's money.

"I was sixteen," Vanessa said. "I couldn't sign a business agreement."

"Exactly," I said. "And yet somebody used your signature as proof that the Sterling family had independently approved it."

Adrian squinted at the screen. "That document wouldn't be valid."

"Not by itself. But it was used as an exhibit in a later arbitration. The original vanished. The copy survived in an archive your father's lawyers forgot existed."

Conrad took one step forward. "Who gave you that?"

I did not answer. The answer was waiting outside the house with an engine running and a stubborn woman behind the wheel.

Vanessa laughed too loudly. "She came here for a payout. Name your number, Mara."

"My father died owing money he never stole. You think there's a number for that?"

Somewhere behind me, a guest whispered, "I remember the Bellwether case." A woman whispered back, "Wasn't there a fire?"

My stomach tightened. We weren't supposed to reach the fire yet.

Adrian studied the document. "Why is the witness line blacked out?"

"Because someone wanted it that way."

Conrad nodded once to the man at the sound controls. The screen went dark. A dozen guests groaned in protest.

"The party is over," Conrad said. "Security will escort everyone out."

"You just told them nobody could leave," Adrian said.

"Circumstances changed."

The guards unlocked the main doors. People spilled toward them with their phones pointed backward. Vanessa seized Adrian's sleeve, but he pulled away.

I started for the service corridor. Conrad caught up and leaned close enough that only I could hear him.

"Your father once had a chance to walk away," he said. "He made the wrong choice. Don't repeat it."

"He tried to save a children's center."

"You still believe that story?"

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For one second his expression looked almost sad. Then he slid something into my hand: a small brass key stamped B-14.

"If you really want the truth," he murmured, "ask your mother why she kept this from you."