I had never once put a double loop in my signature in thirty-four years of running Callahan Construction.

Someone had forged my initials straight onto a document meant to balance the firm’s main payroll account.

Next to the forged initials sat Rebecca’s square office stamp in faded red ink, dated three days before she disappeared from the company.

I smoothed the corner of the yellow paper with my index finger and stared at the blue lines until my eyes ached.

I worked the yellow sheet free of the metal binder rings, folded it once down the middle, and slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket.