But the spacing was slightly wrong.
And the date beside it was a day I’d spent fourteen hours working.
I shook my head.
“That’s not my signature.”
Monica nodded.
“We’ll investigate how it was applied. We can’t determine authenticity by appearance alone.”
Then she turned another page.
A bank account number appeared beneath a disbursement instruction.
I didn’t recognize it.
“Where would the money go?”
“According to this draft, into an account associated with a limited-liability company.”
I stared.
“What company?”
Monica looked at me.
“Brooks Development Partners.”
The name meant nothing to me.
But when she showed me the company-registration information, I recognized one of the listed managers.
Adrian Brooks.
And the second name made my stomach turn.
Marjorie Brooks.
His mother.
I slowly lowered the document.
So that was why she was wearing my robe.
Why she’d arrived before the locksmith.
Why she’d insisted her son deserved control of the condo.
