Part 2

The strange thing about watching someone forge your signature is how normal it looks.

A pen moves. Ink flows. Lines curve where they should. There’s no warning, no dramatic shift—nothing to signal that this is the moment everything changes.

On Warren’s screen, my living room looked unchanged, unaware it had become a crime scene.

Olivia sat with her hands twisted in her lap, pulling at the blue cardigan I’d given her last Christmas. It felt like watching someone wrap themselves in your kindness while doing something unforgivable.

Trevor leaned back, completely at ease. He’d always seemed harmless—neat, polite, helpful. The kind of man who carried groceries and talked about values. He worked in logistics, liked to mention his “head for numbers.” Looking back, that should’ve meant something.

He tapped the page with his pen.

“See? This is the part he never reads,” Trevor said. “Old guys don’t read. They trust whoever’s holding the paper.”

Olivia glanced toward the hallway, like she expected me to walk in. I felt an urge to step into that room, to interrupt the past.

But I was stuck in Warren’s den, watching.

“What if he checks?” Olivia whispered.

Trevor smiled. “Vincent Carter doesn’t check. He fixes things, drinks black coffee, and trusts people.” He signed again, slower. “And even if he notices, it’ll be too late.”

Olivia hesitated. “I don’t want him hurt.”

Trevor let out a short laugh. “He’s not getting hurt. He’s being reorganized. It’s not stealing if it stays in the family.”

My stomach tightened painfully.

Warren shifted behind me. He knew what this looked like—he’d lived through something similar.

Trevor slid another document forward.

“This one matters,” he said. “The health directive.”

Olivia frowned. “He already signed one.”