Chapter 9 - AMY FOUND THE SIGNATURE THAT COULD DESTROY CLAIRE
Amy Higgins found the forgery because she hated her father’s filing habits.
Walter saved everything.
Receipts.
Drafts.
Old signatures.
Copies of Christmas cards.
His lawyers gave Amy permission to collect personal items from his office after investigators finished.
Three hours later, she called Claire.
“Come here.”
Claire arrived with Roman and a forensic document examiner.
Amy held a yellow legal pad.
“Look.”
Walter had practiced signatures.
Not Claire’s full name.
Fragments.
C.
Higgins.
Long looping H.
Dates.
Claire’s blood went cold.
“He practiced mine.”
Amy nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Roman’s face became lethal.
Then the examiner found tracing sheets.
Original document beneath blank paper.
Pressure impressions.
Claire’s real signature copied repeatedly.
Enough.
But they needed to connect it to the guarantee.
The original lender produced paper.
Forensic testing showed the signature had likely been traced.
Claire had not personally guaranteed the loan.
Relief lasted six minutes.
Then the lender’s lawyer said:
“We still have an email confirmation from Ms. Higgins.”
Claire froze.
Email:
I CONFIRM THE ATTACHED PERSONAL GUARANTEE AND AUTHORIZE WALTER HIGGINS TO COMPLETE CLOSING.
Sent from Claire’s account.
Her actual address.
Roman asked:
“Where were you?”
“Boston.”
“Hotel Wi-Fi?”
“Yes.”
“Laptop?”
“With me.”
“Phone?”
“With me.”
“Password?”
Claire went still.
Walter knew an old one.
Years ago.
Had she changed it?
Yes.
But company IT maintained recovery access.
Walter, CFO, could request resets.
Forensics proved an administrative reset had occurred the morning the email was sent.
Authorized by Walter.
Then reversed.
The guarantee collapsed.
Walter admitted it under cooperation.
He had forged Claire’s signature.
Sent the confirmation.
Committed identity fraud against his own niece.
Amy did not visit him again for months.
Then retaliation came.
Victor Bellamy, awaiting trial, still had allies.
One of Higgins Freight’s major clients canceled.
Then another.
Rumors spread that federal authorities planned to revoke Higgins’s trusted-carrier status.
False.
But clients panicked anyway.
Cash flow tightened.
Claire worked eighteen-hour days.
Roman watched her deteriorate.
He said nothing for three days.
Then entered her office at midnight and shut the laptop.
Claire stared.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“You have read the same spreadsheet for forty minutes.”
“Because the answer may change.”
“It won’t.”
“Open.”
“No.”
She stood.
“You do not get to—”
He stepped back immediately and took his hand off the laptop.
Claire stopped.
He nodded toward it.
“Your decision.”
She exhaled.
Then closed it herself.
Roman sat across from her.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t.”
“Fine.”
Silence.
Then Claire said:
“I’m afraid.”
Roman looked at her.
That was new.
“The company?”
“Yes.”
“We are still three million short for the pension restoration.”
“I know.”
“We may lose two more clients.”
“Yes.”
“My father destroyed trust people gave the Higgins name for a century.”
“Yes.”
She glared.
“You’re terrible at comfort.”
“You knew that.”
Claire laughed despite herself.
Then cried.
Roman froze.
Not because women crying frightened him.
Because Claire rarely allowed it.
He moved his hand toward hers.
Stopped before touching.
She noticed.
Then took it herself.
Roman’s fingers closed around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Claire whispered:
“I don’t know if I can save it.”
Roman answered:
“Then save what deserves saving.”
She looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe Higgins Freight does not need to remain exactly what your great-grandfather built.”
Claire frowned.
“Sell?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Employee ownership.”
She stared.
Roman continued:
“Create a trust.”
“For the workers?”
“Thirty percent initially.”
Claire sat straighter.
Roman explained.
Employees had kept the company alive.
Give them equity.
Tie restoration financing to long-term contracts.
Roman would convert part of secured debt into preferred shares without voting control.
Claire narrowed her eyes.
“You’d give up control?”
“Sell it.”
“To whom?”
“The company.”
“Using what money?”
“Future cash flow.”
She stared.
Roman had thought about this.
A lot.
“This would reduce your return.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because liquidation pays me faster.”
“That does not answer why you don’t want liquidation.”
Roman looked at her.
“Anne Higgins would haunt me.”
Claire laughed.
Then his expression softened.
“And because you are building something worth more alive.”
Her heart shifted.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“That almost sounded kind.”
“I apologize.”
They worked until three.
Not on romance.
On capitalization.
That somehow felt more intimate.
Two weeks later, Higgins Freight announced the employee ownership plan.
Drivers cried.
Dispatchers hugged Claire.
Eddie asked:
“So I own part of this place?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“How much?”
“Don’t retire on it tomorrow.”
He laughed.
Then one of the longest-serving warehouse women grabbed Claire’s face and kissed her cheek.
“Your mother would be proud.”
Claire had to walk into the bathroom and cry alone.
Roman waited outside.
Did not follow.
Good.
When she came out, he handed her tissues.
“You have these?”
“Dante keeps everything.”
From down the hall Dante shouted:
“I heard that.”
Claire laughed.
Then Roman looked at her.
“We no longer have direct voting control over your employment.”
Claire’s pulse quickened.
“What?”
“The restructuring closed this morning.”
Yes.
Calder’s voting rights were now limited to extraordinary financial matters.
Claire’s CEO position answered to an independent board that included employee representatives.
Roman could not fire her.
Could not remove her.
Could not threaten her career by personal decision.
He had deliberately reduced his power before asking what came next.
Claire understood.
Roman said:
“Dinner.”
She smiled.
“Finally.”
“Friday.”
“No.”
His face changed.
“Saturday.”
“Why?”
“Friday I’m meeting pension trustees.”
Roman stared.
Claire smiled.
“My company.”
He exhaled.
“Saturday.”
Their first date happened at a small Italian restaurant in Brooklyn.
Not one Roman owned.
Claire checked.
He found that offensive.
“No guards?”
“Outside.”
“Of course.”
They talked.
Not about Victor.
Not about debt.
Not about Patrick.
Roman told her about growing up in Staten Island with a father who believed affection made boys soft.
Claire told him about Anne making her work summers loading invoices because “owners should know where paper comes from.”
Roman laughed.
Claire discovered he had one.
A real laugh.
Low and surprising.
At the end, outside beneath cold streetlights, Roman said:
“I want to kiss you.”
Claire’s breath caught.
“You are unusually direct.”
“I’ve received complaints about ambiguity.”
“From lawyers?”
“Mostly you.”
She stepped closer.
“Then ask.”
His eyes held hers.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
The kiss was nothing like the slap.
No audience.
No chandelier.
No blood.
Just Roman’s hand lightly at her waist and Claire choosing every inch of distance between them.
When they pulled apart, Roman looked almost unsettled.
Claire smiled.
“Refreshing?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been waiting weeks to say that.”
“Yes.”
Then Amy called.
Claire answered.
Her cousin was crying.
“What happened?”
“Dad called.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“From jail?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
Amy’s voice shook.
“He says Bellamy’s people are going to burn Pier Nine.”
Claire looked at Roman.
The happiness disappeared.
“When?”
May you like
Amy whispered:
“Tonight.”
