Chapter 7
Ethan's face had gone pale.
“That's ridiculous.”
Martin turned another page.
“The application was also submitted using a scanned copy of Lydia's driver's license and financial records from a shared household computer.”
I remembered Ethan asking to borrow my laptop.
He said he needed to print insurance paperwork.
I remembered him insisting that we keep copies of our identification documents in one shared folder.
I remembered how irritated he became when I changed my passwords.
Small memories began fitting together with terrible precision.
“Ethan,” I said.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the signature.
“Did you do this?”
He swallowed.
“No.”
I waited.
His eyes moved toward his mother.
Just once.
But I saw it.
And so did Martin.
Marjorie lowered the document.
“This conversation is becoming hostile.”
“Did you do it?” I repeated.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
“I was trying to secure our future.”
The words hung between us.
Our future.
I looked at the forged signature again.
“You used my name.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You used my name.”
“Because you would have overreacted!”
His voice cracked through the room.
Brandon sat perfectly still.
Ethan spread his hands.
“Your father was sitting on millions in property while my family was drowning. I was trying to make something productive happen.”
I couldn't speak.
Millions.
Dad had never lived like a wealthy man.
He wore old boots until the soles split.
He repaired his own appliances.
He bought coffee from the gas station because he said the expensive kind tasted like burnt pride.
But he owned the land beneath the shop.
The surrounding commercial lots.
A small portfolio of investments he had built over forty years.
And Ethan had known.
Perhaps before I did.
Martin spoke quietly.
“Mr. Whitmore, your explanation is not helping you.”
Ethan turned on him.
“You have no idea what pressure I've been under.”
“Then you should have sought lawful financial advice.”
Marjorie slammed her hand against the table.
“Enough! My son has supported Lydia for years!”
I turned toward her.
“Supported me?”
“Yes. Emotionally. Financially. Socially. He gave you a respectable life.”
I felt something inside me break open.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Like a lock finally turning.
“Marjorie, I paid the down payment on our house.”
She blinked.
“I paid sixty percent of our mortgage. I paid for Ethan's car when his business failed. I paid his health insurance for eleven months. And last Christmas, I transferred eighteen thousand dollars into your account because Ethan said you were behind on property taxes.”