Chapter 6 - The Woman on the Signature Line

I didn't sleep. My daughter settled, the contractions eased, and the doctors let me go the next afternoon with strict instructions to return if symptoms changed. But the name on the wire transfer kept burning in my mind.

Mercer Family Outreach. Authorized signatory: Emma Mercer Vale.

I'd never signed anything under that name. Not one document.

“Identity theft,” June said as we sat in her guest room. Her Christmas wreath hung crookedly on the front door because neither of us had the energy to straighten it.

“Or someone wanted me blamed when the money disappeared.”

I called a lawyer my mother had trusted, Evelyn Brooks. She was sixty-two, wore bright scarves, and had a gift for making terrible situations sound manageable without pretending they were small.

“Don't contact the bank yourself yet,” Evelyn said. “First, let's preserve what you have. We'll notify the right people and challenge the forged authorization.”

I showed her the documents, photographs, and messages. She carefully separated originals from copies and wrote down when I'd received each one.

“Emma,” she said, looking up, “the last transaction happened yesterday at 11:51 p.m.”

Four minutes after Adrian walked out.

The timing made me sick.

At noon, Adrian came to June's house carrying groceries, my pregnancy pillow, and a small red stocking embroidered with our daughter's name: Hope.

“I didn't ask you to come,” I said through the locked screen door.

“I brought your things.”

“Leave them on the porch.”

His eyes filled. “Can we talk for five minutes?”

Evelyn stepped beside me. “You can speak through counsel for now, Mr. Vale.”

Adrian noticed the documents under her arm. “You don't know who's behind those.”

“Then cooperate with investigators,” she answered.

He put the groceries down. For the first time, he looked less offended than frightened.

“Emma, whatever they tell you about the foundation, don't sign anything.”

“Who is they?”

He glanced down the street and lowered his voice.

“Your uncle Raymond.”

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I nearly dropped my phone. Raymond Mercer, my mother's younger brother, had delivered the eulogy at her funeral. He was the man who sent flowers on every anniversary of her death.

Then Adrian added, “He knows exactly why your mother kept a second set of books.”