“Sit down.”
I didn’t.
Instead, I opened the envelope and slid the papers across the table.
Her eyes moved from one page to another.
I watched her expression change.
First confusion.
Then disbelief.
Then recognition.
Not recognition of the documents themselves.
Recognition of the possibility.
“That isn’t your signature,” she whispered.
“It looks like it.”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “I’ve watched you sign your name for thirty-eight years. You don’t loop the H like that.”
I looked down.
She was right.
The signature was close enough to fool someone at a glance.
But not Patricia.
She touched the bottom of the page.
“Who notarized this?”
“A woman named Lydia Mercer.”
Patricia stared at the name.
“Why does that sound familiar?”
I looked up.
“You know her?”
“I don’t know.”
She stood and went to the small desk near the hallway where we kept calendars, stamps, receipts, and every birthday card Patricia had bought six months too early.
