Chapter 4 - The Signature That Wasn't Mine
The next morning I sat in Evelyn Hart's office with three documents spread across the table.
The first was the deed.
The second was the trust transfer.
The third was the mortgage modification.
I understood the first two.
The third made my hands shake.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Cassidy Bell.
Underneath it was a signature.
It looked like mine.
But it wasn't.
I stared at it.
“I never signed this.”
Evelyn nodded.
“That is why I'm concerned.”
The document showed that I had supposedly agreed to become personally responsible for the modified loan.
“How much?”
She tapped the page.
“Two hundred thirty-one thousand dollars.”
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because my brain couldn't process the number.
“I've paid four years of this.”
“Yes.”
“So they put the mortgage in my name.”
“Apparently.”
“Without telling me?”
“Apparently.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“But I signed something at the bank.”
“What do you remember?”
“Dad told me it was automatic payment authorization.”
“Did you read it?”
“I was twenty-eight. He had just been injured. He was in pain. Mom was crying. I was trying to keep the house from going into foreclosure.”
Evelyn leaned back.
“That is exactly the kind of situation in which people sign things without reading them.”
I looked again at the signature.
The letters were close.
Close enough that someone who knew my handwriting could imitate them.
“Who was the notary?”
She pointed.
“Martin Hale.”
I knew the name.
“Dad's friend?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“So the notary was someone they knew.”
“Correct.”
“And I supposedly signed this in front of him.”
“That's what the document says.”
“I wasn't even in town that day.”
Evelyn looked up.
“You're sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then find proof.”
I thought.
Four years earlier.
My work records.
My phone location.
My credit card.
I suddenly remembered.
“There's a conference.”
“What?”
“I was in Indianapolis for work.”
“When?”
“The date on this document.”
Evelyn smiled faintly.
“Excellent.”
I pulled up an old email account.
There was the hotel confirmation.
Flight itinerary.
Conference badge.
Credit card charge.
All dated exactly when the document claimed I was sitting in a notary's office back home.
Evelyn took a breath.
“That is potentially significant.”
“Potentially?”
“Because now we have evidence that your signature may be fraudulent.”
“Can they go to prison?”
She gave me a level look.
“Don't get ahead of yourself.”
I wanted to call Dad.
Instead, I called Wren.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Mom.
Please stop involving lawyers. This is a private family matter.
I replied:
Why did you put a mortgage in my name?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
You agreed to help your father.
I stared at the sentence.
I had never agreed to become legally responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Before I could reply, another message arrived.
Everything we have done was for the family.
I showed Evelyn.
She said nothing.
Then she asked, “Do you know where your Social Security card was four years ago?”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Birth certificate?”
“Probably in my bedroom.”
“Check your old records.”
I understood why she was asking.
If someone had access to my identity documents, they might not have needed to forge my signature from memory.
They might have had examples.
I drove to my storage unit.
I had saved old employment folders there.
W-2s.
Tax records.
School documents.
I opened the boxes.
My passport was there.
Birth certificate.
Old lease agreements.
But my Social Security card was missing.
I sat on the concrete floor.
Someone in my family had taken it.
My phone rang.
It was Wren.
“Cassidy!”
“What happened?”
“They know about the lawyer.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you okay?”
“Brent broke my bedroom lock.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“He wanted to know if you had called me.”
My heart hammered.
“Where are you?”
“At school.”
“Stay there.”
“I can't keep doing this.”
“Wren, listen to me. Until we know what's happening, don't go home alone.”
She started crying.
“I found the safe.”
“Where?”
“Behind Dad's office wall.”
“What was inside?”
“I only saw one folder before Dad came in.”
“What folder?”
She went silent.
“Wren?”
“I saw a bank statement.”
“For what?”
She whispered the name.
A name I had never heard before.
Bell Family Holdings LLC.
My throat went dry.
“What's that?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see the account balance?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
She whispered:
“Four hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars.”
I couldn't speak.
My parents had told me they couldn't afford the mortgage.
They had told me they needed me.
They had told me Brent was still getting established.
And while I had been paying the bills, nearly half a million dollars had been sitting in an account connected to my family.
But Wren wasn't finished.
“Cassidy…”
“What?”
“There was another name on the statement.”
“Whose?”
May you like
She swallowed.
“Brent's.”
