My signature was written in dark blue ink on the line marked grantor, right above a gold foil seal.

“I never signed a quitclaim deed for Birch Street,” I said.

“I’ve never even stood on the front porch of that house.”

“That’s your signature, Ronnie,” Gary said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Or a very skilled attempt to copy it.”

“Look at the date stamped next to the notary seal,” I said, pointing at the black numbers.

“I was in the hospital with Chloe the day this was notarized.”

Gary leaned back in his leather chair and folded his hands over his stomach.