Before he went back to the house, Ezra drove out to the industrial district, to a small repair shop where his youngest brother worked with grease worked permanently into the creases of his hands.
Micah took one look at the forged letters spread across the workbench and lowered his head like a man bracing for a blow he knew he deserved.
“I saw him do it,” Micah said.
“Years ago.
I caught Gideon practicing your signature at the kitchen table, over and over on a legal pad.
He told me it was routine — power of attorney stuff, so he could handle the bank runs with Dad, so nobody had to bother you out in Texas.” He wiped his hands slowly on a rag that made them no cleaner.