By eight that morning I was in a glass conference room downtown with the forensic accountant I’d retained the day before, spreading photographs across the table like a hand of cards I finally knew how to play.

Her name was Rosalind, and she had spent twenty years finding the money men like my husband hide.

She went through the images slowly, and when she reached the deed her expression changed.

“This lien,” she said, “is against a private lender that has been under state scrutiny for exactly this — pushing loans people didn’t knowingly take, then moving to seize.

If your father’s signature is forged, this isn’t just voidable.

It’s forgery, it’s fraud, and depending on how the loan was solicited, it may be several other things with prison attached.” She looked up at me.