Chapter 7 - THE FORGED LINEAGE
I booked the earliest red-eye back from Denver to Chicago that night. When my plane touched down at O’Hare, the misty mountain clarity was replaced by gray industrial drizzle and the grinding gears of an impending legal war.
By nine in the morning, I was sitting across from Arthur Finch in his wood-paneled office in the Loop. Spread across the mahogany conference table were notarized deeds, bank signature cards, and blown-up digital scans of loan agreements from a predatory private lending firm based out of Gary, Indiana.
"Take a look at line four," Arthur said, tapping a manicured fingernail against the paper. "That is supposed to be your signature authorizing the release of collateral."
I leaned in. The signature was a crude approximation of my handwriting—the loop of the 'A' too wide, the tail of the 'x' too sharp. Beside it was a fake notary stamp traced back to a shady strip-mall currency exchange in Cicero.
"She borrowed nearly three hundred thousand dollars," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Where did the money go, Arthur? Mike’s car was leased. Her house is falling apart. They don't wear designer clothes. Where does three hundred grand vanish to?"
Arthur adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and slid a secondary folder across the table. "Eleanor has a secret life, Alex. When your father died, she didn't just mourn; she started frequenting the high-limit riverboat casinos along the state line. Over the last four years, her player rewards card shows cumulative losses exceeding four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
The room seemed to tilt. My mother—the woman who scolded me for ordering appetizers at dinners, who made me feel like an ungrateful monster if I didn't hand over my holiday bonuses—had gambled away a fortune while masquerading as a destitute widow living on fixed social security.
"And now the balloon payment is due," Arthur continued quietly. "Next Monday, to be exact. If the lender doesn't receive two hundred and ninety-four thousand dollars in principal and accrued penalties, they are legally authorized to seize the Adams County parcel—and initiate wage garnishment proceedings against you, because on paper, you're the co-debtor."
"Can we prove fraud?"
"Easily," Arthur replied without hesitation. "Your IP address and passport stamps show you were in Zurich on a corporate audit the exact day this document was supposedly notarized in Cicero. But Alex... if we file the criminal affidavit with the county prosecutor, Eleanor isn't just looking at eviction anymore. She’s looking at multiple counts of felony bank fraud, forgery, and identity theft. At her age, with mandatory state sentencing minimums, she will go to prison."
Arthur paused, watching my eyes. "Do you want to press charges?"
May you like
I looked at the forged signature on the paper. I thought of the sweet potato dish shoved in my face, the smirking comments about my wallet, the entitlement dripping from every phone call.
"Draw up the paperwork, Arthur," I said quietly. "Every single page."
