My signature sat at the bottom. The handwriting looked close to mine, but a closer look showed it for what it was: a careful forgery.

Behind it was a second sheet with one typed line: Investigate what was altered while you were recovering in the hospital. Beneath that, in blue ink, a handwritten postscript: Ask Barrett why your mother called his private number the night before she passed away.

My blood went cold. For years Barrett had told me he never spoke to my mother during her final week.

Upstairs, I could hear the boys laughing as they brushed their teeth — an ordinary family morning, while I stood in the doorway holding proof that the ownership records had only opened the first door.

I didn’t confront Barrett, and I didn’t chase the mystery down a dark hallway. I did what I had always done, the thing that had just won me a courtroom: I documented it, and I handed it to people whose job was to find the truth.

The envelope went to Mr. Harlan Reyes, the forensic accountant the court had appointed to run the audit, along with a document examiner Mr. Vance recommended.