her hands was steady.
Mason’s expression changed before she spoke.
“Go upstairs,” he said.
Delaney remained where she was.
“You told me the documents were family records,” she said.
“You said your father had signed them and only needed clean electronic copies.”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“You made it have something to do with me.”
She walked to the table and placed the tablet beside the forged signature report.
Mason lunged across the table.
The investigator stepped between them and caught his wrist before he reached it.
“Sit down,” he said.
For the first time since I had returned to the farmhouse, Mason obeyed someone.
Delaney unlocked the tablet.
Inside a folder labeled Ridge Renovation were photographs of Dad’s old checks, enlarged samples of his signature, editable loan forms, and more than twenty failed attempts to imitate his name.
Aunt Margaret covered her mouth.
Hunter stood abruptly.
“That could belong to anyone.”
Delaney opened the file information.
The documents had been created under Mason’s user account.
Several had been edited on nights when Dad was still in the rehabilitation hospital.
One photograph showed Mason’s hand holding tracing paper over Dad’s signature.
Another showed Hunter’s reflection in the dark window behind him.
Hunter sat down again.
“You took pictures of us?” Mason asked.
“I took pictures of the files you ordered me to scan,” Delaney said.
“I didn’t understand what they were until the bank started calling.
Then you told me never to answer.”
Mason leaned toward her, his voice low.
“Think very carefully about what you are doing.”
“I have been thinking about it for months.”
She selected an audio recording.
Dad’s voice came through the tablet speaker, thin from illness but unmistakable.
“June, if they are playing this, Mason has done exactly what I feared.”
My chest tightened.
For a moment, the dining room disappeared.
I saw Dad at the workbench years earlier, guiding my small hand over a rough plank.
Never force the grain, June.
Watch where it wants to go.
The recording continued.
“I found letters from the bank in the barn office.
Mason told me they were mistakes.
Then I saw a loan number I had never opened and a signature that looked like mine from far away.”
There was a pause, followed by Dad drawing a careful breath.
“Hunter knew.
I heard them arguing about whether the ridge would cover the debt.
They think I cannot understand much since the stroke.
They are wrong.”
Mason knocked the tablet from the table.
It struck the rug but did not break.
The investigator pushed him back into his chair.
“That is enough.”
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
The sheriff entered with two deputies and a leather document case.
He greeted the investigator, then looked around the table until his eyes settled on Mason and Hunter.
“I have an affidavit recorded by Everett Whitaker six days before his death,” he said.
“I also have warrants to seize electronic devices connected to Whitaker Ridge Holdings.”
Mason laughed, but the sound lacked conviction.
“My father was medicated.
Anything he said is unreliable.”
The sheriff opened the case.
“His physician evaluated him immediately before the statement.
The doctor found him alert, oriented, and capable of understanding his property and financial affairs.”
Thomas Bell closed his
