Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE WAS NEVER REALLY THEIRS
I called Caroline immediately.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“What happened?”
I sent her the photograph.
There was a long silence.
“Are you with Hannah?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“At school.”
“Go there.”
I drove faster than I ever had.
My hands were sweating against the steering wheel.
Every few seconds, I checked the rearview mirror.
I didn't know who had taken the photograph.
I didn't know whether the threat was real.
But after what had happened inside my house, I wasn't willing to take chances.
When I reached the school, I found Hannah standing near the front entrance with her backpack.
She looked confused when she saw me.
“Mom?”
I got out of the car.
“Come here.”
She immediately walked toward me.
“What happened?”
I hugged her.
She stiffened in surprise.
Then hugged me back.
“Mom, you're scaring me.”
“Did anyone talk to you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
She thought for a moment.
“I don't think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a gray SUV across the street.”
My heart sank.
“Did you see who was inside?”
“No.”
I looked toward the road.
The SUV was gone.
Hannah studied my face.
“What's happening?”
I didn't want to tell her everything.
She was sixteen.
She had already seen her father hit her mother.
She had already been forced out of her bedroom.
She didn't need to carry an adult legal battle on her shoulders.
But she deserved enough truth to protect herself.
“Someone is trying to take the house.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
“I found a document with my signature.”
“But you didn't sign it.”
“No.”
“Then they can't take it.”
“I hope you're right.”
She looked toward the school.
“Is Dad doing this?”
I didn't answer.
That was enough.
Hannah's face fell.
“I thought maybe he was sorry.”
“So did I.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Don't go back there.”
“I won't.”
She nodded.
Then she whispered, “I don't want to lose our home.”
I squeezed her hand.
“Neither do I.”
That afternoon, Caroline arranged for us to meet a forensic document examiner.
His name was Martin Ellis.
He had spent thirty years analyzing signatures and questioned documents.
He placed my genuine signatures beside the property document.
For nearly an hour, he said almost nothing.
Finally, he looked up.
“This was not signed by you.”
I exhaled.
“I knew it.”
“Whoever created this had access to samples of your signature.”
“Where would they get them?”
“Checks. Insurance forms. Bank documents. Tax records. Old contracts. Anything.”
I thought about the house.
Brandon had handled many household documents over the years.
He had access to everything.
Martin pointed to the forged signature.
“There's another problem.”
“What?”
“The person who created this didn't simply imitate your handwriting.”
“What did they do?”
“They traced or transferred elements from an authentic signature.”
Caroline leaned forward.
“Can you prove that?”
“Probably.”
“Enough for court?”
“With the original document and proper examination, potentially.”
I felt dizzy.
Someone had deliberately manufactured a false legal document.
Not a misunderstanding.
Not a mistake.
A plan.
Caroline asked Martin another question.
“Can you tell when the signature was added?”
“Not exactly from this alone.”
He examined the ink.
“But I can tell you something.”
“What?”
“The signature appears older than the printed text around it.”
Caroline frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Someone may have prepared the signature separately and incorporated it into a later document.”
I stared at him.
A cold realization settled over me.
This wasn't something Brandon had decided to do last week.
Someone had been preparing for this.
Possibly for years.
That evening, I called my brother, Daniel.
He lived in Cincinnati and worked in insurance investigations.
I hadn't told him about the slapping yet.
When I did, there was a long silence.
Then he said, “I'm driving to Columbus.”
“You don't have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
The next morning, Daniel arrived.
He hugged Hannah first.
Then me.
When he saw the bruise still faintly visible on my cheek, his expression changed.
“Did Brandon do that?”
I nodded.
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I need ten minutes before I say something I regret.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
That was my brother.
He always needed ten minutes.
We sat at the kitchen table of the small apartment where Hannah and I were staying.
I gave him copies of the documents.
He read them carefully.
Then he looked at me.
“Rebecca, do you remember Dad's business partner?”
“Mr. Collins?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“Dad kept records.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
Daniel pulled out his phone.
“After Dad died, I helped clean his office.”
I stared at him.
“You never told me that.”
“You didn't ask.”
He opened an old photograph.
It showed our father sitting behind his desk.
On the wall behind him was a calendar.
The date was eighteen years earlier.
Daniel zoomed in.
“Look at the folder.”
I stared.
On the desk was a file labeled with my name.
Rebecca Foster.
“What is that?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is it?”
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
“I kept it.”
My heart stopped.
“You have it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad told me never to throw it away.”
Daniel had brought it with him.
Inside were copies of the original property documents.
But there was something else.
A letter.
My father's handwriting.
Daniel handed it to me.
Rebecca,
If anything ever happens to me, I want you to remember one thing.
The land belongs to you.
Your husband has no authority over it unless you willingly give it.
Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.
I looked at Daniel.
“Why would Dad write this?”
“I don't know.”
“He must have known something.”
Daniel shook his head.
“There was one more thing.”
“What?”
“Dad was worried about Brandon.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
“He told me once that Brandon had asked questions about the property.”
“When?”
“Before your wedding.”
I stared at him.
“Brandon knew about the land before we got married?”
“Apparently.”
The room became very quiet.
For eighteen years, I had believed Brandon had married me because he loved me.
Now I couldn't stop wondering whether that had ever been true.
That evening, Caroline called.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“The property transfer document was notarized.”
“So?”
“The notary is still alive.”
My heart began pounding.
“Can we talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She doesn't remember your name.”
“Then how can she help?”
“Because she remembers the document.”
Caroline paused.
“She says the woman who appeared before her wasn't you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who was it?”
“She doesn't know.”
“Can she describe her?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
“She said the woman looked very much like you.”
My blood ran cold.
“Like me?”
“Yes.”
Caroline lowered her voice.
“And Rebecca, she said something else.”
“What?”
“The woman was wearing your wedding ring.”
I looked down at my hand.
I had worn the same ring for eighteen years.
That night, I lay awake beside Hannah.
Neither of us slept.
Around two in the morning, I heard a car stop outside.
I quietly walked to the window.
A black sedan sat across the street.
The headlights were off.
I couldn't see the driver.
Then the car moved away.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It was my father's old house.
The caption read:
YOUR FATHER KNEW.
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Then another message appeared.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHY.
