Then I whispered, “I’m still angry at you.”
“I know.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
“But you didn’t have to carry that folder for six weeks.”
He looked up.
“I did,” he said. “Somebody had to.”
The detective crouched near us.
“Miss Talbot, I need to be honest with you,” he said. “The arraignment is Monday morning at nine, before Judge Warrick. Your trust is the center of the case.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Ziegler’s attorney will argue the amendment is valid. If the judge can’t see proof that your father’s signature is fake, the court may freeze the whole trust while this gets sorted out. That could take years.”
Years.
My birthday was in eight days.
My mother’s hand found my shoulder.
“The best proof is the notary,” Ridgeway said. “Whoever stamped that amendment. But the ink on the original is smudged, and the commission number is unreadable.”
Jonathan nodded miserably.
