Chapter 5 - The Signature That Wasn't MineThe forged document was dated fourteen months earlier.
Not in the dramatic, movie-style sense.
There was no abandoned car.
No mysterious bloodstain.
No surveillance footage showing masked men.
She simply stopped answering.
Her phone went directly to voicemail.
Her office computer showed she had logged out.
And Prescott Development's receptionist claimed Claire had "gone home sick."
Elena didn't believe that.
Neither did I.
At eleven, my father wanted to call the police immediately.
Elena advised restraint until we understood whether Claire was in danger or simply frightened.
I couldn't sit still.
"What USB was she talking about?"
Elena reread the message.
"I don't know."
"Could it contain the records?"
"Possibly."
"Then Caleb knows it exists."
"Yes."
"And Claire knows where it is."
"Probably."
I stood.
"We need to find her."
Dad shook his head.
"You are not going anywhere near Caleb."
"I didn't say I was."
"I know that expression."
"What expression?"
"The one you had at sixteen before you stole my car."
"I borrowed your car."
"You drove it to Wisconsin."
"It came back."
"Without a side mirror."
Elena held up a hand.
"Can we save the family nostalgia until after the potential financial crime?"
I sat down.
She continued.
"We need to think like Claire."
Twenty-nine years old.
Accounts payable manager.
Single.
Lived alone in an apartment in Lincoln Park.
No criminal history.
No apparent financial problems.
She had joined Prescott Development four years earlier and received two promotions.
By all accounts, she was competent.
Quiet.
Reliable.
Then Elena noticed something.
"Her mother."
"What?"
"Employee emergency contact."
She turned her laptop.
"Rose Bennett. Lives in Evanston."
We called.
No answer.
I wanted to drive there.
Dad insisted Marcus come.
By noon, rain from the previous night had disappeared, leaving the city strangely bright.
Rose Bennett's house was a modest brick bungalow with a blue porch and wind chimes near the door.
Marcus knocked.
No response.
Again.
Then we heard something inside.
A woman's voice.
"Who is it?"
I stepped closer.
"Mrs. Bennett? My name is Savannah."
Silence.
"Claire called me this morning."
The lock turned.
The door opened three inches.
An older woman looked through the gap.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Is Claire okay?"
Her eyes filled with fear.
"Please leave."
"Mrs. Bennett—"
"She told me not to speak to anyone."
"Did Caleb threaten her?"
The door began closing.
Then I said, "He hit me last night."
Rose stopped.
I swallowed.
"He hit me six times and threw me outside. If Claire is afraid of him, I understand why."
The door slowly opened.
Rose stared at the bruising on my face.
"Oh my God."
"Please tell me she's safe."
Rose stepped aside.
Claire was sitting at the kitchen table.
She looked terrible.
Her eyes were red.
Her hands shook around a mug.
When she saw me, she stood.
"I'm sorry."
I walked toward her.
"For what?"
"For helping him."
"You said you didn't know."
"I should have known."
Elena arrived ten minutes later.
Claire told us everything.
Eighteen months earlier, Caleb had ordered her to create new vendor accounts.
Marketing consultants.
Design firms.
Environmental contractors.
The names looked legitimate.
The invoices were professionally prepared.
At first, Claire assumed they were ordinary project expenses.
Then she noticed multiple vendors used addresses linked to the same registered agent.
She asked Caleb.
He told her to mind her job.
A month later, she received a $20,000 "performance bonus."
"I knew then," Claire whispered.
"You knew what?" I asked.
"That he was buying my silence."
"Did you take it?"
"Yes."
Her eyes filled.
"My mom had surgery. I needed the money."
Rose reached for her daughter's hand.
Claire continued.
"I kept copies of everything after that."
"Why?"
"Insurance."
She went to the hallway closet.
From the lining of an old winter boot, she removed a tiny black USB drive.
My pulse jumped.
"The USB."
Claire nodded.
"It has bank authorizations, emails, invoices, and internal memos."
Elena put on gloves before accepting it.
"Has anyone else seen this?"
"No."
"Did you modify any files?"
"No."
"Good."
Claire looked at me.
"There's something else."
I braced myself.
"Vanessa wasn't the first."
That landed differently than I expected.
Not sharper.
Almost duller.
"How many?"
"I don't know."
Claire looked ashamed despite having no reason to be.
"But there were payments to another woman two years ago. Jewelry. Rent. Trips."
I stared at the kitchen table.
Five years.
I had spent five years trying to become easier to love.
Less demanding.
Less ambitious.
Less social.
Less myself.
And Caleb had responded by cheating repeatedly.
Something inside me finally detached.
Not broke.
Detached.
The love I had carried for him suddenly felt like an old photograph of strangers.
Elena returned to the financial records.
"The falsified collateral documents concern me most."
Claire nodded quickly.
"He talked about that."
My head lifted.
"When?"
"Last month. He was arguing with someone in his office."
"Who?"
"His father."
Richard Prescott.
Caleb's father had always been polite to me.
Cold, but polite.
Claire lowered her voice.
"Mr. Prescott said, 'If Savannah ever discovers what you did with her signature, we'll all go to prison.'"
My entire body went still.
"My signature?"
Claire nodded.
Elena leaned forward.
"On what document?"
"I don't know."
"But you heard him say signature?"
"Clearly."
I looked at my father.
He looked furious.
Then my phone rang.
Caleb.
Again.
This time I answered.
"Hello?"
"Savannah."
His voice sounded strained.
"You need to come home."
"No."
"We can fix this."
"No."
"Stop saying no like a child."
My stomach tightened.
Old reflex.
Old fear.
Then I looked at Claire.
At my father.
At Elena.
And remembered the front steps.
Six slaps.
"You're not speaking to me that way anymore."
Silence.
Then Caleb laughed.
"Savannah, whatever your father has told you—"
"My father hasn't told me anything."
"What?"
"Claire did."
The line went dead silent.
Across the table, Claire turned pale.
Caleb's voice changed.
"Claire who?"
I almost admired the instinct to lie.
"You know which Claire."
"I have hundreds of employees."
"No. You have approximately one hundred and eighty-six."
Another silence.
Then he whispered:
"She stole company property."
Elena mouthed, Don't engage.
But I needed one answer.
"Did you forge my signature?"
Caleb exhaled.
"You don't understand business."
"Answer me."
"You benefited from those deals."
"Did you forge my signature?"
His voice hardened.
"You were my wife. I had authority."
"No, you didn't."
"We were married."
"Marriage isn't a power of attorney."
"Don't pretend you're some financial genius because Daddy showed up."
There he was.
The real Caleb.
The one I'd spent years excusing.
I felt strangely calm.
"You're right."
"What?"
"I don't need to pretend."
Then I hung up.
Two seconds later, another phone rang.
Claire's.
She stared at the screen.
Unknown number.
She answered cautiously.
"Hello?"
A man's voice spoke.
Not Caleb.
Older.
Cold.
"Claire Bennett?"
Her face drained.
"Yes?"
"This is Richard Prescott."
We all went still.
"I suggest you think very carefully about whatever you've taken from my son's company."
Claire couldn't speak.
Richard continued.
"Because if those files become public, Caleb won't be the only person who goes down."
The call ended.
Claire stared at us.
My father slowly stood.
"What does that mean?"
Elena looked toward the USB drive.
"It means Caleb may not be the biggest problem."
And she was right.
Because three hours later, when a forensic accountant opened the first encrypted folder, we found something that had nothing to do with Vanessa.
Nothing to do with an affair.
And nothing to do with six million dollars.
It was a scanned document carrying my signature.
A document I had never seen.
May you like
It transferred controlling rights in one of my private companies.
And listed the recipient as Richard Prescott.
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