She does.
Martin placed a second document beside it—a holiday card Selina had mailed us the previous December.
The handwriting matched.
Selina gripped the edge of the table.
“I was showing him how she signs birthday cards.
That proves nothing.”
“It proves enough to continue asking questions,” Martin said.
Jameson stood abruptly.
“My mother had nothing to do with this.”
Fiona looked at him.
“Then you may explain why the loan officer received a call from a woman claiming to be Jennifer’s mother-in-law and confirming that Jennifer was too emotionally distressed after her mother’s death to speak for herself.”
The cruelty of it landed more heavily than the forged signature.
They had used my grief as part of the fraud.
While I was sorting my mother’s clothes and deciding what to do with her hospital badge, Selina had apparently told a bank employee that I was unstable, unreachable, and dependent on my husband.
Jameson had not merely ignored my grief.
He had converted it into an opportunity.
I sat in the armchair across from him.
“Tell me exactly when this began.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“It wasn’t supposed to become this.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Damien had a short-term problem.
He needed collateral to secure a bridge loan.
He said investors were coming in.”
“And my signature?”
“You were barely functioning after Katherine died.
I knew you would say no before you understood the situation.”
“So you decided consent was unnecessary.”
“I decided to protect my brother.”
There it was.
Not an apology.
Not even shame.
A justification.
Fiona opened her portfolio and removed another document.
It was a preliminary forensic report comparing my verified signatures with the one on the loan application.
The examiner had identified significant differences in pressure, rhythm, and letter formation.
The signature had been slowly drawn rather than naturally written.
Jameson glanced at it and looked away.
Martin asked him whether he wanted an attorney present before answering further questions.
The room changed after that.
For the first time, Jameson seemed to understand that he was not arguing with his wife about household finances.
He was standing inside an active fraud investigation.
He said he would answer nothing else.
Selina began gathering her handbag and coat.
Fiona blocked her path without touching her.
“You are free to leave.
The documents are not.”
Selina released the papers as though they had burned her fingers.
At the door, she turned toward me.
“You are destroying this family over money.”
I held her gaze.
“No.
I am refusing to let your family destroy what is left of mine.”
She left without another word.
Martin photographed the folders and collected the bank notice, the copied loan records, and the handwritten signature practice sheet.
