Chapter 2 - The Contract With My Signature
“Call my mother.”
Rachel’s voice snapped through the phone.
“Now.”
I was already dialing.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped across the police station floor.
Officer Morales looked up.
“What happened?”
“The witness on the forged contract knows my mother.”
“Who?”
I turned the phone toward her.
The witness line read:
MELANIE CROSS.
Melanie had been my mother’s closest friend for twelve years.
She lived three houses away.
She watered Mom’s plants when she traveled.
She collected her mail.
She had a key.
And two months earlier, she had introduced Gregory to a real estate investor at a neighborhood fundraiser.
At the time, I had barely noticed.
Now every forgotten detail seemed dangerous.
Officer Morales asked, “Why would she witness your signature?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Unless?”
“Unless she was involved.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Are your doors locked?”
“Yes. Claire, you’re frightening me.”
“Is Melanie there?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“She was.”
My heart slammed.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“What did she want?”
“She said you asked her to pick up some papers.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
That answer surprised me.
“How?”
“Because she said they were in my desk.”
“What papers?”
“Copies of Nathan’s estate documents.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you give them to her?”
“No.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to sit.
“Why not?”
“Because you never ask anyone to touch Nathan’s documents without calling me yourself.”
My mother could drive me insane.
At that moment, I loved every stubborn bone in her body.
“Where is Melanie now?”
“She left.”
“Did she use her key?”
“No. I answered the door.”
“Mom, Officer Morales is here with me. I need you to stay inside until an officer comes to you.”
“What has happened?”
I looked at Abigail.
She was coloring at a small desk an officer had found for her.
“Someone forged my signature on a property agreement.”
“What?”
“And Melanie’s name is on it as a witness.”
My mother went silent.
Then she said something I did not expect.
“Gregory.”
I gripped the phone.
“Why did you say his name?”
“Because Melanie asked me about your house last week.”
“What did she ask?”
“Whether Nathan had left it entirely to you.”
My skin prickled.
“What did you tell her?”
“That it was none of her business.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then Mom continued.
“She said Gregory was only trying to make sure you and Abigail were protected.”
“How would she know what Gregory was trying to do?”
“That’s what I asked.”
“And?”
“She changed the subject.”
Officer Morales was taking notes.
“Mom, an officer is coming. Do not let anyone inside.”
“I won’t.”
“Not even someone you know.”
“I understand.”
After we ended the call, Rachel arrived.
She crossed the station lobby in a gray suit carrying a laptop bag and the expression I remembered from Nathan’s probate hearings.
Focused.
Cold.
Dangerously calm.
She hugged Abigail first.
Then me.
“I pulled everything I could.”
We moved into a small interview room.
Rachel opened her laptop.
“Larkspur Residential Holdings was formed eleven weeks ago.”
“By Gregory?”
“His name is on the filing, but there’s another member.”
“Who?”
“The public record doesn’t say.”
She rotated the laptop.
“The company address is a mailbox service.”
“Can they really take half my house with one forged document?”
“No. A forged deed or assignment is voidable, and we’re going to challenge it aggressively. But the recording creates a cloud on title.”
“In English.”
“It can make selling, refinancing, or proving clean ownership much harder until it’s resolved.”
“Why forty-nine percent?”
“That bothers me.”
“Why?”
“If someone simply wanted to steal the property, they might attempt a full transfer.”
“So why leave me fifty-one?”
Rachel leaned back.
“Control without attracting the same immediate attention.”
Officer Morales asked, “Could the company borrow against its claimed interest?”
“Potentially attempt to. Whether a lender would accept it is another matter.”
I felt sick.
“Gregory once asked if I had considered a home-equity line.”
Rachel looked at me.
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need one.”
Rachel closed her eyes briefly.
“What?”
“Nothing yet.”
“I hate when lawyers say that.”
“I need facts before I scare you.”
“I’m already scared.”
Abigail looked up from her coloring.
I lowered my voice.
Rachel noticed.
She closed the laptop.
“Then we get facts.”
The police arranged for an officer to accompany us to my mother’s house.
We did not go home.
I called a locksmith and scheduled the earliest possible lock change for the following morning, with police present if needed.
Gregory called six times.
I answered none.
His messages progressed exactly as I should have expected.
4:57 p.m.
Hey. Where are you guys?
5:12.
Claire? Everything okay?
5:28.
I’m at your place. Thought we were having dinner.
5:41.
Abby leave Bunny somewhere? I saw it earlier.
That message made my blood freeze.
He wanted me to know he knew.
Or he had no idea what Abigail had told me.
I couldn’t decide which possibility was worse.
At 6:03, another message came.
We need to talk about the house.
Rachel read it.
“Do not respond.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“He may be trying to get you to acknowledge some agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“Exactly.”
At my mother’s house, Abigail finally ate.
Macaroni and cheese.
Apple slices.
Chocolate milk.
Normal food in an abnormal evening.
I watched her from the kitchen doorway.
Mom stood beside me.
“You should have listened to Rachel.”
I turned.
“About Gregory?”
“Yes.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
“I know.”
Her voice softened.
“I’m not criticizing you.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I’m angry.”
“So am I.”
“Not at you.”
I looked at her.
Mom was sixty-seven and still had the ability to make me feel sixteen with one raised eyebrow.
“I’m angry,” she said, “that a man came into your life and studied what you loved so he could figure out where you were vulnerable.”
The words landed hard.
“Do we know that?”
“No.”
She looked toward Abigail.
“But your daughter was afraid to go home.”
That was the fact I couldn’t escape.
Not the contract.
Not the company.
Not the money.
Abigail.
I sat with her before bedtime.
She had changed into pajamas my mother kept for sleepovers.
“Can I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“Did Gregory ever scare you before today?”
A long pause.
“Sometimes.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“He asked questions.”
“What questions?”
“About Dad.”
“What about him?”
“Where his things were.”
I stayed still.
“What things?”
“Papers.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me grown-up papers are private.”
I touched her hair.
“Good.”
“He got mad.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“Abby.”
“He smiled.”
Again.
That smile.
“What did he say?”
“He said secrets make families sick.”
I had to look away.
“Did he ask anything else?”
“He asked if Grandma had copies.”
My head snapped back.
“When?”
“The same day.”
That explained Melanie.
Maybe.
Or made it worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you liked him.”
The sentence hurt more than anything Gregory had done.
I took her hands.
“Listen to me. You never have to protect my feelings from something that makes you uncomfortable.”
“But you were happy.”
“You matter more.”
“Even if you’re mad?”
“Especially then.”
She studied my face.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“No.”
The answer came before I thought about it.
For the first time all evening, Abigail’s shoulders relaxed.
That told me more than any contract.
After she fell asleep, Rachel and I sat at Mom’s dining table with documents spread between us.
She had obtained the full recorded agreement.
The signature was frighteningly accurate.
The notary section was more troubling.
“Notarized?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Evan Pike.”
“Do I know him?”
“Do you?”
I looked at the name.
“No.”
Rachel searched the state notary database.
His commission was active.
His listed business address belonged to a mobile document service.
“If he actually notarized a forged signature, he has a serious problem,” Rachel said.
“Could his stamp have been stolen?”
“Possible.”
My phone buzzed.
Gregory.
This time he sent a photograph.
My front porch.
Taken from inside my house.
The caption:
Your security system keeps alerting me. Call me.
Rachel stared at it.
“He’s still inside.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“How is that good?”
“Because now the police know exactly where to find him.”
Officer Morales called ten minutes later.
Two officers were on their way to the property.
I expected them to remove Gregory immediately.
Instead, twenty-three minutes later, Morales called again.
“He’s gone.”
“What?”
“The house was empty when officers arrived.”
“He was there.”
“We know.”
“How?”
“Back door was open.”
I stood.
“Was anything taken?”
“They can’t inventory without you.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Officer—”
“Claire, we don’t know where he is.”
Rachel nodded firmly.
I hated them both for being right.
Morales continued.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“Your office was disturbed.”
My mouth went dry.
“How badly?”
“Desk drawers open. File cabinet emptied.”
I thought of Nathan’s documents.
Abigail’s trust.
Passports.
Birth certificates.
“Anything else?”
A pause.
“We found a printer running.”
“What was printing?”
“Copies of your driver’s license.”
I stopped breathing.
“How did he have my license?”
“Not the physical card. Scans.”
Rachel stood.
“Claire, ask what else.”
“What else?”
Morales hesitated.
“Copies of your signature.”
My fingers went numb.
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
I sat down.
Practice sheets.
He had practiced my signature.
That explained the contract.
But not who sent the photographs.
Not Melanie.
Not the mysterious notary.
Not why Gregory had risked staying inside my house after we failed to return.
Rachel’s laptop chimed.
She looked down.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“Rachel.”
She turned the screen toward me.
An email had arrived from the county’s automated property notification system.
Another document had just been submitted against 2147 Hawthorne Lane.
Not yesterday.
Tonight.
At 7:46 p.m.
While Gregory had been inside my house.
Rachel opened it.
Her face went white.
“This isn’t another ownership transfer.”
“What is it?”
She scrolled to the final page.
“It’s a loan.”
My throat tightened.
“How much?”
“Four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
I stared at her.
“Against my house?”
“Yes.”
“Who borrowed it?”
Rachel enlarged the borrower information.
Larkspur Residential Holdings.
Gregory’s company.
Then she scrolled lower.
The loan included a personal guarantor.
My name.
My forged signature.
And beneath it was a second guarantor.
Rachel stopped moving.
“What?” I whispered.
She turned the laptop.
The second signature belonged to someone I trusted more than Gregory.
May you like
Someone who had been inside my life for years.
And unlike my signature, this one looked completely real.
