Inside was a photocopy of the forty-one-thousand-dollar wire transfer authorization from the sale of the lake lot back in May.

My name was printed in thick, neat block letters across the top line.

But down at the bottom, where the account owner had to sign under penalty of perjury, the ink told another story.

“Look at the bottom of the G,” Brenda said, leaning in until her silver necklace brushed the edge of the page.

“The loop on that letter doesn’t match your normal signature, Garrett.”

I held the page up to the yellow light from the diner window.