Chapter 8 - The Signature That Wasn't Mine
Thursday morning began in a conference room filled with invoices, bank statements, and untouched coffee.
I had barely slept.
Maya had called in a forensic accountant named Daniel Price, who specialized in tracing business transactions during shareholder disputes.
He was quiet, meticulous, and completely unimpressed by Nathan's expensive stationery.
After reviewing the financial records for twenty minutes, he pushed one page toward me.
"Do you recognize this payment?"
I studied the amount.
Two hundred sixty thousand dollars.
The money had moved from Vale Atelier to Nathan's Madison Avenue jewelry business over several months.
The descriptions called the transfers licensing fees and promotional expenses.
"We never agreed to that," I said.
"Who approved them?"
Daniel pointed to an electronic authorization.
Nathan.
"His position as chief executive gave him some spending authority," Daniel explained. "But whether these transfers were authorized under the shareholder agreement is another question."
"Can we get the money back?"
"Possibly. But not before Friday."
I hated how many answers ended that way.
Maya entered carrying a folder.
"We received a copy of the notary journal."
I sat up.
The document transferring my voting rights had supposedly been signed in May.
The notary's journal included an entry bearing my name, an old address, and a driver's license number.
But something caught my eye.
"That's my previous license."
Maya nodded.
"The one you replaced after moving apartments."
"How would the notary have it?"
"Someone gave her the information."
Nathan had kept copies of my identification in a household file he claimed we needed for insurance and banking matters.
I remembered handing it over without thinking.
Daniel examined the journal.
"There's a signature beside the entry."
It wasn't mine.
Not exactly.
It was the version of my signature I'd used years earlier, before changing the way I wrote the capital E.
The forged proxy used that same outdated style.
Suddenly, I understood what had bothered me.
"Both signatures came from an old document," I said.
Maya leaned closer.
"Why do you think that?"
"Look at the V."
I pointed to the unusual loop.
"When I was younger, I made that loop because Mom did. I stopped after college. Nathan knows that."
"Can you find an original example?"
I thought for a moment.
Then I remembered.
Our marriage license application.
Nathan had kept a scanned copy.
I pulled it from an old email.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Even the awkward angle between the first and last names was nearly identical.
Maya didn't celebrate.
"This helps us investigate the source of the signature. It isn't proof by itself, but the Portland evidence is much stronger."
My aunt had supplied appointment records, dated photographs, and a sworn statement confirming I spent that afternoon with her.
My credit card records also placed me in Portland.
At the time of the alleged notarization, we'd been having lunch several thousand miles from New York.
Maya looked at me.
"We have enough to make a serious argument tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow is too late. The meeting's tomorrow afternoon."
"We'll ask the court to hear us first."
My phone rang.
Nathan.
I declined the call.
He left a voicemail.
"Emma, I know you're upset, but you've taken this too far. Celeste says you're making accusations that could destroy people's careers. Come home tonight. We can resolve this privately."
I deleted nothing.
Maya asked me to forward the recording.
Then I looked at the date on my phone.
May you like
Tomorrow I would turn twenty-nine.
And somewhere in Manhattan, my husband was preparing to use my birthday as the day he took away everything my mother had left me.
