Kurt bent down close, his cold breath fogging against the corner of the typed page.

He stared at my license, then back at the blue ink on the contract.

“That isn’t your handwriting,” Kurt said.

“That’s Brad’s handwriting,” I said.

“He signs his commission sheets at the John Deere dealership with those very same round loops.”

Russ Lindahl moved in close enough to read over Kurt’s shoulder, his brow deeply furrowed.

“That son of a gun forged your name.”

“He told us you didn’t want to meet us in person because the divorce was still raw,” Russ said, his voice climbing in hard anger.