Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN'T MINE
I took the paper from Tom.
My name appeared on the final page.
Claire Bennett.
The letters looked almost right.
The capital C was familiar. The final stroke of the t curved upward the way mine sometimes did.
But I knew my own signature.
And I knew I hadn't signed this.
“What is this?”
Michael reached for the document.
I stepped backward.
“Don't touch me.”
He stopped.
Tom answered.
“An agreement transferring your half of the lake cottage into a holding company.”
I stared at him.
“What holding company?”
“Briar Lake Properties.”
Rachel made a small sound.
I looked at her.
“Rachel?”
She shook her head.
“Claire, please.”
“Did you forge my signature?”
“No!”
Michael spoke quickly.
“It's complicated.”
I turned toward him.
“Did you forge my signature?”
He swallowed.
“I didn't personally sign anything.”
The wording struck me.
Not no.
Not I would never.
I didn't personally sign anything.
Tom gave a bitter laugh.
“That's what he told me too.”
My father stepped forward.
“Someone explain what's happening.”
Nobody answered.
Then my mother looked at Rachel.
“Sweetheart?”
Rachel began crying.
“I made a mistake.”
One mistake.
That was what she called it.
A forged signature.
A secret property company.
And kissing my husband in front of our family.
I felt something cold settle inside me.
“Tom,” I said, “how long have you known?”
He hesitated.
“Six weeks.”
Six weeks.
He had known for six weeks.
And he had invited us to this party anyway.
My anger shifted.
“You could have told me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Twice. Rachel intercepted the first message. The second time, Michael told me you already knew.”
I looked at Michael.
He stared at the ground.
Tom's voice broke.
“I should have called you directly. I know that.”
I looked back at the document.
My father had built that cottage with his own hands.
Every summer, Rachel and I had slept in the upstairs bedroom beneath a ceiling painted pale blue.
Dad had taught us to swim there.
Mom had taught us to make blackberry jam.
When he died, he left the property equally to both of us.
He said it wasn't worth much compared with the memories.
But three years later, developers began buying land around the lake.
Suddenly the cottage sat on property worth nearly nine hundred thousand dollars.
And apparently, my husband and sister had decided it should belong to someone else.
I folded the paper.
Then looked at Michael.
“Where are the children?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Our children.”
“Inside.”
“Get their bags.”
“Claire—”
“Now.”
He hesitated.
Then moved toward the house.
Rachel reached for my arm.
I pulled away.
“Don't.”
She began crying harder.
“Please don't do this.”
I looked at her.
“Do what?”
“Destroy our family.”
I stared at my little sister.
May you like
Then I said something that silenced the entire backyard.
“Rachel, I didn't destroy anything. I just found out what you already broke.”
