PART 7 — THE SIGNATURES THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST
I stared at Rebecca Reed’s name until the letters stopped looking like letters.
My daughter.
A woman I had never met.
A woman I had spent forty-two years believing was dead.
Her signature was sitting underneath mine on a power of attorney neither of us had signed.
I looked at Scott.
“Who made this?”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t.”
Caroline’s voice came through the speaker.
“Don’t believe him, Margaret.”
Scott slammed his hand on the desk.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The manager leaned closer to her monitor.
“Mrs. Bennett, this document was not filed directly with our branch.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“It was submitted electronically through an outside law office.”
Scott closed his eyes.
I noticed.
“So you know the law office.”
“No.”
“You just reacted to it.”
“I’m reacting because this whole thing is insane.”
The manager scrolled.
“Harper, Cole and Wexler.”
Scott said nothing.
Caroline did.
“Ask for the attorney’s name.”
The manager clicked again.
“Richard Cole.”
A sharp sound came from Caroline’s end of the phone.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Of course.”
I leaned toward the phone.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He handled some of your husband’s business.”
I looked at Scott.
“Was he your father’s lawyer?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was he the lawyer who handled the estate?”
“No.”
That made no sense.
“Then why would he have a power of attorney for me?”
Nobody answered.
Mr. Alvarez reached for the printed document.
“What authority does this grant?”
The manager read silently.
Her expression became more serious with every line.
“Financial accounts. Real property transactions. Investment management. Access to safe-deposit boxes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Safe-deposit boxes?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have one.”
Scott looked away.
I caught it.
“Do I?”
Silence.
“Scott.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Dad had one.”
“And now?”
“It transferred to you.”
“Where?”
“Different bank.”
I felt anger rising again.
“How many things do I own that I don’t know about?”
Scott snapped, “I was trying to protect you!”
“From what?”
He didn’t answer.
Caroline did.
“The truth.”
The room went quiet.
I turned toward the phone.
“Then give it to me.”
Caroline hesitated.
“I will.”
“When?”
“Today.”
Scott immediately shook his head.
“No.”
Caroline ignored him.
“Margaret, can Dottie pick you up?”
I froze.
“How do you know Dottie?”
Another silence.
Scott stared at the phone.
Caroline answered softly.
“Because your husband knew you would eventually need someone you trusted.”
That sentence chilled me.
“My husband knew this day would come?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because before he died, he knew Scott had found the box.”
Scott stood.
“I’m done.”
Mr. Alvarez remained seated.
“You are free to leave.”
Scott grabbed his jacket.
I watched him.
“You leave now, and I’m revoking everything.”
He turned.
“Ma, you don’t know what Caroline wants.”
“No. But I’m beginning to understand what you wanted.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither was forty dollars a week.”
His face tightened.
I continued.
“Neither was taking management fees without permission.”
“Ma—”
“Neither was redirecting my statements.”
He looked down.
“And neither was using a power of attorney I never signed.”
“I didn’t forge it.”
“Then stay and help us find out who did.”
That stopped him.
For several seconds, Scott stood beside the door.
Then slowly, he returned to his chair.
The manager began making calls.
First to the legal department.
Then fraud prevention.
Then the other bank.
Every few minutes, she asked me another question.
Had I ever visited Harper, Cole and Wexler?
No.
Did I know Richard Cole?
No.
Had I signed anything six months ago giving Scott expanded authority?
No.
Had I met Rebecca Reed?
No.
That answer nearly broke my voice.
Finally, the manager hung up.
“We have confirmation.”
My hands tightened.
“Of what?”
“The power of attorney was used.”
Scott’s head lifted.
“Where?”
She looked at me.
“At the other bank.”
“The safe-deposit box?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Five months ago.”
I turned to Scott.
“Were you there?”
“No.”
The manager looked at him.
“According to their access record, you were.”
His face went blank.
“What?”
“They have your signature.”
Scott laughed once.
“Then somebody forged mine too.”
Caroline spoke from the phone.
“No, Scott.”
He glared at it.
“Shut up.”
“Tell your mother.”
“I said shut up!”
His voice filled the office.
And that was when I knew Caroline had finally reached the thing he feared most.
I leaned forward.
“Tell me what?”
Scott breathed heavily.
Then looked at me.
“I went to the box.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you go?”
“Because Caroline told me Dad left something there.”
“What?”
“A packet.”
“For who?”
“You.”
The answer was so simple it made me furious.
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you open it?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“What was inside?”
Scott looked toward the phone.
Caroline said nothing.
He finally answered.
“Letters.”
“From Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Property records.”
“What else?”
“A photograph.”
“What else?”
He swallowed.
“A sealed envelope.”
“Addressed to who?”
“You.”
“Where is it?”
“I told you. I don’t have it.”
“Who does?”
Scott didn’t answer.
Caroline finally spoke.
“Rebecca.”
I stared at the phone.
“Rebecca has my husband’s letter?”
“No,” Caroline said.
“She has yours.”
I frowned.
“I never wrote her a letter.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You just don’t remember writing it.”
A chill ran through me.
“When?”
“The night she was born.”
I stopped breathing.
“I was unconscious.”
“Not the whole night.”
A memory flickered.
My mother’s face.
A pen.
My hand shaking.
Someone crying.
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
“What did I write?”
Caroline’s voice softened.
“I’ve never read it.”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
“Because Thomas kept it for forty-two years.”
I looked again at the photograph of him.
Alive.
Older.
Holding my past somewhere I couldn’t reach it.
“Where is Rebecca now?”
Caroline went quiet.
“Caroline?”
“She lives about ninety minutes from you.”
My throat tightened.
Ninety minutes.
For forty-two years.
Not another country.
Not another coast.
Ninety minutes.
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt worse than I expected.
“How long?”
“Most of her life.”
I whispered, “And she never contacted me?”
Caroline hesitated.
“She did.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“More than once.”
“When?”
“First when she turned eighteen.”
I was sixty-four now.
That meant—
Twenty-four years ago.
“Where did she send it?”
“To your house.”
My stomach turned.
“I never received anything.”
“I know.”
“Then what happened?”
Caroline was silent.
Scott wasn’t.
He whispered,
“Dad intercepted them.”
I turned toward him.
He looked miserable.
“How many?”
“Ma…”
“How many letters did she send me?”
“I found seven.”
Seven.
Seven times my daughter tried to reach me.
Seven times I knew nothing.
I could feel tears gathering, but I refused to let them fall yet.
“What did your father do with them?”
“Kept them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Scott shook his head.
Then Caroline said quietly,
“Because Rebecca knew who her father was.”
I looked at the phone.
“Thomas.”
Caroline didn’t answer immediately.
And suddenly I understood that I had made another assumption.
My voice dropped.
“Thomas isn’t her father?”
“No.”
Scott stared at the phone.
Even he looked surprised.
I felt dizzy.
“But the birth certificate—”
“Was altered.”
“Then who is Rebecca’s father?”
Caroline breathed out slowly.
“That’s what your husband spent forty-two years trying to hide.”
My heart hammered.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t prove it without the documents Rebecca has.”
“Caroline.”
“Margaret, there is one more thing you need to understand before you meet her.”
“What?”
“Rebecca didn’t agree to meet you because she wants money.”
“I didn’t think—”
“She doesn’t want the certificate either.”
“Then what does she want?”
A long pause.
When Caroline answered, her voice was almost a whisper.
“She wants you to tell her why you gave her away.”
I could barely speak.
“But I didn’t.”
“I know.”
“Does Rebecca?”
Silence.
That silence told me everything.
I gripped the phone.
“Caroline.”
“Margaret…”
“Does my daughter believe I abandoned her?”
“Yes.”
The word cut straight through me.
For forty-two years, I had mourned a dead baby.
And for forty-two years, somewhere ninety minutes away, that baby had grown into a woman believing her mother had chosen to live without her.
Then Caroline said one final thing.
“There’s something else.”
I closed my eyes.
“What now?”
“The person who told Rebecca you abandoned her wasn’t Thomas.”
I opened my eyes.
“It was someone in your family.”
I looked at Scott.
He shook his head immediately.
“Not me.”
Caroline’s voice came quietly through the speaker.
“No, Scott.”
Then she said the name.
“Dottie.”
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