“The card you were given appears to have been tied to a limited access account associated with that file. But the file itself is larger than the card.”
“How much larger?”
He did not answer.
Instead, he picked up the office phone and pressed a button.
“She’s here,” he said.
Two words.
Quiet.
Careful.
Like someone on the other end had been waiting years to hear them.
Emily appeared in the doorway holding another folder.
Her face had gone pale.
“The archived signature card is attached,” she said.
Michael took it from her.
He opened it on the desk.
Three signatures sat at the bottom.
My grandfather’s.
Mine.
And my adoptive father’s.
I leaned closer.
My signature looked almost right.
Almost.
The first letter was too wide.
The final stroke dropped too low.
I had signed my name thousands of times in forms, on duty logs, on apartment leases, on medical intake sheets.
That signature was not mine.
“I didn’t sign that,” I said.
Emily covered her mouth.
Michael’s face did not change, but his eyes sharpened.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Donovan, I need you to be very clear.”
“I did not sign that.”
He pulled the folder a few inches closer and made a note.
Documented.
That word landed in my mind with strange force.
Not believed.
Not comforted.
Documented.
For the first time in five years, someone was not asking me to swallow the insult quietly.
Someone was writing it down.
Michael opened another file.
