Chapter 16 - Dad's Old Mistake
I drove to Dean's house that evening without calling first.
Dad was in the basement apartment assembling a cheap bookshelf.
He took one look at my face and set down the screwdriver.
"What did she say?"
"That I should ask you why my signature was easy to copy."
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
That was answer enough.
"Dad."
"I never opened a card in your name."
"That isn't what I asked."
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"Eight years ago, when the business was failing, I had a line of credit application. You were helping with the books."
I remembered.
I had spent nights entering invoices into his ancient accounting software.
"You signed a personal guarantee form for a supplier," he continued. "A legitimate one."
"Yes. For twelve thousand dollars."
"I kept a scan."
My stomach tightened.
"Where?"
"On the old office computer. After the business closed, the computer came to the house."
"And Mom had access."
He nodded.
I sat across from him.
"Did you tell her?"
"Not then. I forgot it existed. A few months ago she asked if I had any old files with your signature because she said the mortgage company needed comparison copies."
"And you gave her one."
He looked at the floor.
"Yes."
I wanted to explode.
Instead, I heard my own voice come out exhausted.
"Why did everyone in that house think my identity was a shared household item?"
Dad's eyes filled.
"Because we got used to you saying yes."
That was the truest answer anyone had given me.
"I didn't say yes to this."
"No."
"I didn't say yes to the credit card."
"No."
"I didn't say yes to the loan."
"No."
"I didn't say yes to sleeping in the garage."
He broke then.
Not loudly.
Dad had never been loud.
He bent forward with his elbows on his knees and cried into both hands.
"I watched that," he said. "I watched her put you out there."
I looked away.
"I know."
"I told myself if I stayed quiet, she'd calm down."
"She always calmed down after someone else gave in."
"Yes."
"Usually me."
"Yes."
We sat with it.
No forgiveness speech.
No hug that magically repaired four years.
Just truth sitting between us, ugly and late.
Then Dad got up and opened a metal file box.
"There's one more thing."
I almost laughed.
"There is always one more thing."
He handed me an external hard drive.
"Backup from the old office computer. I found it when I packed."
I took it.
"What's on it?"
"Everything. Old scans. Bank files. Emails."
He swallowed.
"And maybe proof your mother started using your signature before Tyler's car wash."
Grace had a forensic technician clone the drive the next morning.
By lunch, Marcus Shaw called.
"Claire, we found five applications using your signature over six years."
I gripped the phone.
"Five?"
"Two were rejected. One was the recent credit card. One was a store account that's already closed."
"And the fifth?"
He paused.
"A life-insurance beneficiary change request on your father's policy."
I looked through the glass wall of Grace's office at Dad.
"Changed to who?"
Marcus answered.
"Your brother Tyler."
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