Chapter 7 - THE FORGED SIGNATURE
For a moment, I could not understand what I was seeing. The ink had faded, but the shape of the letters was unmistakable—the high, looping S, the short line beneath the surname.
Sophia Chen.
My hand went numb around the edge of the paper.
“That’s not possible,” I whispered.
Alessandro took the page from me, though his fingers were no steadier than mine.
Marie leaned forward. “What does it say?”
I looked at her.
“You signed this?”
Her face tightened with confusion. “I have never seen that document.”
“But it has my name.”
“I know your signature.”
“So do I.”
The road curved through a line of tall trees. Beyond them, the guesthouse appeared: a pale stone building with green shutters, surrounded by a garden that had been carefully protected from the late autumn cold.
Alessandro told Dante to stop before the entrance.
“We need to examine the page before we go inside,” he said.
“You think it’s forged?”
“I think someone wanted it to look as though you authorized the transfer.”
“Why would anyone need my signature?”
He studied the document.
“Because they wanted the payment to appear legitimate. Or because they wanted to connect you to an account you knew nothing about.”
Marie’s hands closed tightly in her lap.
“I never received money from anyone named Vittorio.”
“You received money from someone,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “But I thought it came from Vale.”
“Did he ever give you cash directly?”
“Once. After that, it arrived through bank deposits.”
“Which bank?”
“Bellhaven Trust.”
Alessandro and Dante exchanged a glance.
“What?” I asked.
“Bellhaven Trust handled several of my father’s private accounts,” Alessandro said. “It also handled the shipping companies’ payroll accounts.”
“Could the bank tell us who made the deposits?”
“Not without a formal request.”
“Then we make one.”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his answer. No attempt to keep me away from the investigation or to decide what I could handle.
That mattered more than he probably realized.
The guesthouse belonged to Sister Beatrice’s older sister, Clara, a retired teacher who greeted us at the door wearing a wool cardigan and flour on one cheek. She looked at Marie, then at me, and asked no unnecessary questions.
“You can stay as long as you need,” she said. “The rooms are upstairs. The kitchen is always open.”
Marie’s eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you.”
Clara touched her arm. “You don’t have to explain your whole life before breakfast.”
The simple kindness seemed to undo something inside Marie. She lowered her head and nodded.
While Clara showed her to a room, I stood in the front hall with Alessandro.
The ledger lay between us in a leather folder.
“Will your people stay outside?” I asked.
“Dante and one other man. They’ll keep watch from the road.”
“Not inside.”
“Not inside.”
“And no one searches Marie’s room.”
“No one will enter without your permission.”
I studied him.
“You’re agreeing very quickly.”
“I’m learning.”
The words were so quiet that I almost missed them.
Clara called us into the kitchen. She had prepared tea and thick slices of toast with butter and honey. The room was warm and bright, with copper pans hanging above the stove and a vase of dried lavender on the windowsill.
It felt nothing like the Caruso estate.
I understood why Sister Beatrice had chosen it.
This was a place where people were allowed to be tired.
Marie sat at the table with both hands wrapped around a cup. She looked as though she had not slept in weeks.
I sat opposite her.
“Tell me everything about the payments.”
She flinched but nodded.
“The first deposit came two months after we left Bellhaven. It was enough to cover rent and food for several weeks. There was no note, only a reference number.”
“Did the money continue?”
“Not regularly. Sometimes months passed. Then another payment would arrive.”
“Did you spend it all?”
“No.”
“Where is the rest?”
“I don’t know. Some of it went to debts. Some paid for your school and clothes. I kept whatever remained in an account under my name.”
“Do you still have that account?”
“Yes.”
“Then we need the records.”
Marie looked toward Alessandro.
“Can he help us get them?”
“He can,” I said before Alessandro answered. “But I want access to everything.”
Alessandro nodded. “You’ll have it.”
Marie lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I felt the familiar ache rise in my chest, but this time I did not push it away.
“I believe that you’re sorry.”
She looked at me hopefully.
“That doesn’t mean everything is forgiven.”
“I understand.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You have every right to be.”
“And I don’t know what our relationship will look like after this.”
Marie’s mouth trembled. “I’ll accept whatever you decide.”
The answer should have relieved me. Instead, it made me realize how much she had changed in a single night. She was no longer telling me what I must do. She was finally allowing me to choose.
I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers.
It was not forgiveness.
But it was a beginning.
Alessandro sat beside me while Dante arranged a meeting with Bellhaven Trust’s compliance officer. By noon, a representative named Rebecca Sloan arrived at the guesthouse with two sealed folders and a portable scanner.
She was a composed woman in her forties with dark hair pulled into a neat knot. She greeted Alessandro professionally but seemed more interested in me.
“Mr. Caruso said you’re the authorized party connected to the account.”
“I’ve never opened an account with your bank.”
“No,” Rebecca replied. “But your identity was used to authorize a protected transfer.”
“Can you tell whether the signature is genuine?”
“That is what we’re here to determine.”
She spread the papers across the kitchen table.
The signature on the authorization resembled mine closely, but the pressure was wrong. My father had taught me to sign my name when I was twelve. He had shown me how to make the first letter graceful and the final stroke firm.
This signature was too careful.
Someone had copied the shape without understanding the movement.
Rebecca compared it with the signature on my identification documents and with a form I completed that morning.
“It’s a tracing,” she said.
The words released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Can you prove who submitted it?”
“The original authorization was uploaded from a terminal at the Bellhaven Maritime offices.”
Alessandro’s expression hardened.
“Elias Bell,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” Rebecca replied. “The terminal was assigned to the accounting department. Several employees had access.”
“Do you have a name?”
She opened the second folder.
“The employee who entered the transfer was Martin Keene. He was an accountant for Bellhaven Maritime.”
“Is he still employed there?” Alessandro asked.
“Not anymore. He resigned six years ago.”
“Where is he now?”
Rebecca hesitated. “He died three years ago.”
The room fell quiet.
“How?” I asked.
“A heart condition, according to the report.”
“Was it investigated?”
“Not by the bank.”
Alessandro looked at Dante. “Find out.”
Dante nodded.
I turned to Rebecca. “What was the purpose of the transfer?”
“The account was coded as a protection expense. The recipient was Marie Chen.”
“Protection from whom?”
“The bank doesn’t record that level of detail.”
“Who created the account?”
Rebecca examined the file.
“Your father.”
I felt the floor steady beneath me and shift at the same time.
“My father opened it?”
“Yes. Six weeks before his death.”
“Then he knew my aunt might need money.”
“He may have anticipated that she would need to leave Bellhaven,” Rebecca said. “There are also notes attached to the account.”
She handed me a photocopy.
My father’s handwriting filled the margin.
If anything happens to me, transfer funds to Marie. She must keep Sophia away from the port investigation until Alessandro can be trusted with the whole truth.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at Alessandro.
His face was pale, but he did not look away.
“Until you could be trusted?” I asked.
He nodded slowly. “Your father wasn’t sure whether I knew how deeply my father was involved.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Rebecca continued, “There’s another note.”
May you like
She turned the page.
The payments must appear to come through Vittorio’s private account. If anyone follows the trail, they will assume the Caruso family is responsible. This will keep attention away from Marie and Sophia.
