“I’ll leave,” I told the room, my eyes on my brother, “as soon as Tate signs these.

They’re a formal assumption of debt.

They move the thirty-five thousand he stole from my accounts, with a forged signature, entirely into his name.

If he signs, I walk away.

If he doesn’t, there’s a police report for federal wire fraud and identity theft on my lawyer’s desk, ready to file at eight a.m.

Monday.” Gasps went around the room.