Boston Real Estate, a Greenwich Mansion, and Five Attorneys
The signature slanted left, the S looped high, and the last r trailed away like an unfinished thought.
“That’s my name,” I said.
“That isn’t my handwriting.”
“Signed on June twelfth.”
“My father didn’t die until August.”
“I know he did.”
I touched the signature with one finger.
The ink was blue, the paper slightly thick.
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