Chapter 4 - The Lawyer
The document wasn't just fake. It had been built to survive questions.
I didn't sleep that night.
At three in the morning, I was still staring at the photo.
The attorney's name sat at the bottom of the second page.
Mark Ellison.
He had handled my father's business for almost twenty years.
Tax issues.
Property.
Contracts.
Trust documents.
He wasn't some random notary who signed whatever landed on his desk.
He knew what signatures meant.
I called his office the next morning.
His assistant answered.
“Ellison and West.”
“Hi. My name is Riley Morgan. I need to speak with Mark Ellison.”
“Is he expecting your call?”
“No.”
“Can I ask what this concerns?”
“My signature appears on a childcare authorization document that I never signed.”
Silence.
“Hold, please.”
I waited.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Two.
Then Mark came on.
“Riley.”
“Did you witness my signature on a document dated December 3?”
Another silence.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you prepare a document containing my signature?”
“No.”
“Did my mother ask you to?”
“I can't discuss privileged information.”
“I'm not asking about my parents' legal matters. I'm asking why your name is on a document authorizing me to take custody of my brother's children.”
“That isn't my document.”
“Then why is your name on it?”
He paused.
“Where did you get it?”
“From Stephanie.”
Another pause.
Then Mark said something that made my skin prickle.
“Riley, do not sign or acknowledge anything your mother sends you.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“And don't agree to any statement that says you consented to childcare.”
“Why?”
He lowered his voice.
“Because there is another document.”
“What document?”
“I shouldn't be telling you this.”
“Then don't.”
I heard him exhale.
“But I think you need to know.”
My hand tightened around my phone.
“What?”
“Your mother asked me to draft an emergency authorization several weeks ago.”
“So she did ask you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you refuse?”
“I refused to state that you had signed it.”
My heartbeat picked up.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you would need to sign in person.”
“And?”
“She said she had your permission.”
I stared at the wall.
“Did she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I asked you directly.”
“You never did.”
“Exactly.”
I swallowed.
“So who signed it?”
Mark didn't answer immediately.
Finally he said, “I received a scanned copy.”
“Whose signature?”
“Yours.”
“But it wasn't me.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then who?”
“I can't tell you over the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to protect my client.”
“Your client is my father.”
“Yes.”
“And I am his daughter.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re protecting him from me?”
“No.”
The way he said it made my stomach drop.
“Then who are you protecting?”
He paused.
“I think you should speak to your father.”
“I already did.”
“And?”
“He told me I was stubborn.”
Mark was silent.
Then he said, “That sounds like your father.”
I almost laughed.
“Mark, tell me one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did my father know my signature wasn't real?”
“I believe so.”
That was the answer.
Not everything.
But enough.
I thanked him.
Before he hung up, he said, “Riley?”
“Yes?”
“Your mother didn't ask me for that document because she needed babysitting.”
I froze.
“What do you mean?”
“I can't discuss the underlying matter.”
“But you just said—”
“I've said too much already.”
The call ended.
I sat there staring at my phone.
A strange possibility formed.
What if the childcare form wasn't the real reason?
What if Christmas was only the excuse?
My mother didn't just want my apartment.
She wanted something she could get from me while I was distracted.
Something that required my consent.
Something that required my signature.
My phone buzzed.
An email.
From a sender I didn't recognize.
Subject:
You should check what your mother filed under your name.
There was no message.
Only one attachment.
A PDF.
I opened it.
The first page was a property-related authorization.
My name appeared at the top.
My address below it.
And beneath that, a sentence that made my stomach twist:
May you like
Authorized Representative.
My mother.
