Chapter 8 - My Signature, Her Hand
Margaret stood at the sink washing a clean plate when Evie showed her the clipping. She had washed that plate twice already. The water ran hot enough to fog the window above the faucet.
“Why were you at the warehouse the night Dad died?” Evie asked.
Her mother shut off the tap. “I went to bring him home.”
“Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Because I came away alone. What was there to tell?”
“You've had eighteen years to think of a better answer.”
Margaret pulled a folded sheet from her purse. It was a photocopy of an old police interview summary, yellow around the edges. She said she'd kept it because one line described a dark pickup leaving the service road shortly before the fire. The investigator had asked whether she recognized the truck. At the time she'd said no. Now she admitted she'd seen the same dented tailgate in Victor Mercer's driveway two days earlier.
“Why didn't you correct the statement?” Evie asked.
“Because I was frightened they would think I'd been following your father to hurt him,” Margaret said. “And then the years passed until it felt impossible to start.”
Margaret sat down heavily. She said Thomas had discovered that an old survey showed the bakery's lane belonged to the family, not the developer. Someone had offered him money to sign a contradictory statement. He refused. That night Margaret followed him to the warehouse after he received an urgent call.
“Victor Mercer met me outside,” she said. “He told me Thomas had already gone in. He said I should get home before things turned ugly.”
“And you left?”
“I heard shouting. I was scared. I drove to the police station, but by the time I explained where he was, the fire trucks were already going out.”
Evie tried to picture her mother on that road, steering away from the warehouse. She could imagine the fear. She could not understand the silence afterward.
“Did you see Thomas again?”
“No,” Margaret said, meeting her eyes. “Not that night.”
The qualifier sat between them like another person.
Before Evie could ask about it, Laurel called. A forensic review of the deed image had revealed an electronic submission tied to an account created using paperwork supplied by Mercer Holdings. Investigators were seeking the submission history; no one had yet established who used the account. Claire had agreed to meet with Laurel and give a written statement, with independent counsel present.
Evie went to the office but waited outside while Claire spoke. Through the frosted glass she could hear voices rise and fall. An hour passed. When the door opened, Claire looked exhausted.
“I told them I took your old signature page from the bakery office,” she said. “Daniel told me to. He had someone turn it into a deed. He gave me a scanned notary seal and said the paperwork would go through faster.”
“Did you know the notary was dead?”
“No. I knew I wasn't watching you sign. That's bad enough.”
Evie appreciated the last sentence more than any apology Claire had offered so far.
Claire continued, “Daniel said if I wouldn't help, he'd go to court over June, and everyone would hear about the years I accepted money without telling you he was her father. I was afraid. And I also wanted the apartment and the car he promised. Both things are true.”
“You need to tell your lawyer the custody threat,” Evie said. “And June needs adults who stop using her to win arguments.”
Claire nodded. “I'm arranging to speak to someone at family services about how to explain all this to her.”
Back at the bakery, Daniel was waiting beside the delivery entrance. Evie stopped a few feet away, with Eli and Nora visible through the kitchen window.
“I hear you're giving statements,” Daniel said.
“I hear you're worried about them.”
“Graham's pulling out. He's not paying another dime if the sale gets delayed. You think the bank will be patient while you play detective?”
“Did your father take something from mine?”
Daniel's face hardened. “Don't drag my father into this.”
“He was at the warehouse.”
“My father ran away when I was nineteen. He left me with debt and a name nobody wanted. I don't know where he went.”
For a moment, Evie believed the hurt in his voice. Then he stepped closer and said, “Tell Claire to retract that statement. We can still settle this quietly.”
“No.”
“Think about June.”
“I am. You should try it without turning her into a threat.”
He looked toward the window, saw Eli watching, and walked off. Nora handed her the delivery receipt from the morning truck. Daniel had circled a line on the back while waiting, writing a telephone number and the words FINAL OFFER. Evie took a photograph of that, too. She wasn't going to call him, but the paper showed he'd approached her at the workplace after being asked to stay away.
Evie wrote down his words immediately and sent the account to Laurel. She was tired of trusting her memory while other people revised the past.
That night, June asked if they could make biscuits for breakfast. Evie handed her the measuring cup, and they worked in companionable quiet until the child stopped stirring.
“Mom said Mr. Daniel might be my dad,” June said.
Evie knelt beside her. “Your mom is getting help so she can talk with you properly. I'm sorry you've had to hear grown-up things in pieces.”
“Does that change who I am?”
“Not one bit.”
June considered the dough. “Good. Because I already know I like biscuits.”
May you like
Evie laughed, and June laughed, and they finished mixing. Later, when the child was asleep, Evie noticed the velvet cuff-link box on the mantel where she'd dropped it after the hotel. Its satin lining had lifted at one corner.
Underneath was a small brass key, flat as a penny, with a single letter scratched into it: C.
