My hands were steady, which frightened me more than shaking would have.

I photographed every page.

And at the bottom of the deed, on the signature line where my father’s name was written in my father’s careful hand, I saw the thing that turned a divorce into a criminal case.

My father had not signed it.

I know my father’s signature the way I know his voice, and this was a forgery — a good one, a practiced one, but a forgery.

Chapter 12 — The Second Folder