CHAPTER 2: THE CONTRACTOR
I barely slept that night. Every creak of the house, every groan of the wind outside, every shift of the plastic sheeting covering the floor—all of it felt like an accusation. My mother's voice echoed in my head. "It's family property." As if the money I'd earned, the years I'd worked, the nights I'd spent scraping and saving and sacrificing meant nothing. As if my ownership was just a technicality that could be ignored whenever it was inconvenient.
At 6:30 the next morning, I gave up on sleep and made coffee using the single burner I had salvaged from the kitchen. I sat on the back porch, watching the sun rise over the lake. The water was calm. The birds were singing. Nature didn't care about my problems. It just kept being beautiful, indifferent to the chaos of human betrayal.
I knew I had to do something. The anger that had carried me through the night was starting to fade, replaced by something colder and more determined. I couldn't just sit here and let them get away with this. I had to fight back. But I needed evidence.
At 7:30, a truck pulled up the gravel driveway. A man in a hard hat climbed out. He was in his late forties, with a weathered face and kind eyes. He looked nervous.
"Ms. Carver?" he said, approaching cautiously. "My name is Carlos Reyes. I'm the contractor your father hired."
I stood up. "Come in. We need to talk."
He followed me into the house, his eyes widening at the destruction. "I don't understand," he said. "Your father told me you'd approved everything."
"He lied."
Carlos's face went pale. "He said you were out of town. He said you'd signed all the paperwork. He provided a copy of the deed. He said it was a family property and that you'd agreed to the renovation."
"He provided a copy of the deed because he has access to my records. But he didn't have my permission. And he certainly didn't have my signature."
I watched the realization dawn on his face. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"
"That depends. Did you verify the documents?"
"I should have. I know I should have. But when a client brings me paperwork that looks legitimate, and when they have a deed, and when they're family—" He ran a hand over his face. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Carver. I should have called you directly."
"Did you have a signed authorization form?"
"Yes. I can bring it to you this afternoon."
"Please do. And every other document my father provided."
"Of course. But Ms. Carver, I want you to know—I'm willing to cooperate in any way I can. I'll testify. I'll give statements. Whatever you need."
"Thank you, Carlos."
He left, promising to return with the documents by noon. I spent the morning cleaning up as much of the mess as I could. I filled trash bags with debris. I swept the floors. I made a list of everything that had been damaged. The kitchen cabinets, which had cost me twelve thousand dollars. The fireplace mantel, which was an antique. The hardwood floors, which would need to be completely refinished.
When Carlos returned, he handed me a thick folder. Inside were the authorization forms, contracts, and a signed document that appeared to bear my name at the bottom. I stared at the signature. It was good. Almost perfect. The loops were right. The slant was right. The pressure was nearly identical.
But there was one problem.
I had never signed a document with that pen. I always used a blue ink pen that my grandmother had given me—the one with the gold cap and the fine tip. The signature on the form was black ink.
I took a photo and sent it to Marcus.
"Call me when you get this," I texted.
My phone rang less than a minute later.
"Where did you get that?" Marcus asked.
"From the contractor. My father provided it."
"It's a forgery. A good one, but I can see the differences in the letter formation. The loop on the 'C' is slightly too tight. The downstroke on the 'a' is too consistent. Someone practiced this signature."
"Who?"
"I can't tell from the document alone. But I can have a handwriting expert analyze it."
"Do it. And let me know what you find."
I hung up and stared at the document. My father had provided it. But had he been the one to forge it? Or had someone else done the handwriting?
I looked at the witness signature. My mother's name, written in her neat cursive.
She had been there. She had signed her name as a witness. She had known what was happening.
I felt the anger building again, hot and sharp in my chest. I had always known my mother favored Jacob. I had known it since I was a child, watching her dote on him while I was relegated to the background. But I had never imagined she would go this far.
I called my father.
"Bella," he said, his voice strained.
"Dad, I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth."
"Okay."
"Did you forge my signature?"
There was a long silence. "No," he finally said. "I didn't."
"Then who did?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Dad—"
"I can't tell you because I don't know. I brought the documents to your mother, and she said she'd handle it. She said you'd already approved everything over the phone."
"She lied."
"I know that now. But I didn't know it then."
I closed my eyes. "Dad, if you want to make this right, you need to testify. You need to tell the truth about what happened."
"I will. I promise."
May you like
I hung up. I didn't know if I could trust him. But I didn't have a choice. He was my only witness.
And the truth was going to come out. One way or another.
