I had never seen it. But there was my identification, scanned and attached.

And there was my signature — or something almost exactly like it, close enough that even I stared at it and felt my stomach drop.

Someone had taken my real documents, the ones stored since my wedding day, the ones Agatha had kept for “safekeeping,” and built a fraud around them with my own name.

While we waited for a handwriting expert to examine the forgery, the pressure on Bruce began.

Three major donors let it be known that they would pull their money from his hospital foundation if he went on sheltering me.

I heard it happening.