Chapter 5: The Signature
“What exactly are you trying to transfer?””
Nobody answered.
Dad's hands were trembling on the edge of the table.
Mom stared at the floor.
Brent looked like he wanted to disappear.
I waited.
Finally, Dad said, “The house.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
His eyes lifted.
“No what?””
“No, that isn't what you're transferring.””
Brent swallowed.
“Cassidy…”
“You're trying to transfer my ownership.””
Nobody corrected me.
That was confirmation enough.
I pulled the attorney's letter closer.
The language was suddenly easier to understand now that I knew what I was looking for.
*Transfer of remaining ownership interest.*
*Execution by all recorded parties.*
*Required authorization from Cassidy Elaine Mercer.*
My name appeared three times on the page.
My father's appeared twice.
My mother's appeared twice.
Brent's appeared once.
I looked at the new title document.
“Why is Brent on this?””
Dad looked at him.
Brent answered quietly.
“Because the refinance couldn't go through without additional collateral.””
“What collateral?””
“The house.””
“I know that.””
He swallowed.
“My credit.””
“You used your credit.””
“Yes.””
“So the bank gave you seventy-four thousand dollars.””
“Partly.””
“What does partly mean?””
Brent looked at Dad.
Dad said, “Some of it paid the judgment. Some consolidated our debts.””
“Our debts?””
I almost laughed.
“Whose debts?””
“My debts,” Dad said.
“And Brent's,” Mom whispered.
I turned toward her.
“What did Brent owe?””
She started crying again.
Brent's voice hardened.
“Don't.””
I looked at him.
“How much?””
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“About thirty-two thousand.””
“For what?””
“Credit cards. Medical bills. My car.””
“So the refinance was used to pay your debt too.””
“Yes.””
“And I was expected to sign away my ownership so you could clean it up.””
“We weren't thinking about it that way,” Brent said.
“How were you thinking about it?””
Nobody answered.
I pushed the papers away.
“You want me to sign?””
Dad nodded slowly.
“To finish the refinance.””
“And what happens to my inheritance?””
“It remains yours.””
“Where?””
Dad didn't respond.
I pointed at the brokerage statement.
“This?””
“Yes.””
“Who controls it?””
“You.””
I stared at him.
“You've controlled it for twenty years.””
“I was the custodian.””
“You weren't supposed to be.””
“I know.””
“So why should I trust you now?””
He looked down.
“You shouldn't.””
The honesty stopped me.
Dad had finally said something I believed.
I picked up my phone.
“I need an attorney.””
Mom shook her head.
“Cassidy, please don't involve strangers in the family.””
I looked at her.
“You already involved a bank.””
“That was different.””
“You involved a title company.””
She said nothing.
“You involved an attorney.””
Still nothing.
“You involved my brother.””
Brent closed his eyes.
“And somehow I'm the one bringing strangers into it?””
Mom covered her mouth.
Dad pushed himself out of the chair.
“I'm going to bed.””
I looked at him.
“No.””
He froze.
“You're not.””
He turned around slowly.
“This is my house.””
I held up the deed.
“It's mine too.””
Dad's face went pale.
“You don't know what you're saying.””
“I know exactly what I'm saying.””
He stared at the old deed.
“Cassidy…”
“You told me to stand on my own two feet.””
I placed the document flat on the table.
“I think I've been doing that for a long time.””
Brent looked at me.
“What are you going to do?””
I answered without looking at him.
“Get the truth.””
The next morning, I woke before sunrise.
I hadn't slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same numbers.
$312,847.56.
$74,000.
$42,173.19.
Forty-eight mortgage payments.
Twenty years of missing information.
At 6:12 a.m., I drove to the bank.
The lobby wasn't open yet.
I sat in my car with the heater running, staring at the glass doors.
At 8:03, I walked inside.
A woman named Ms. Harper met me in a private office.
She had silver-framed glasses and the kind of calm expression people have when they've spent decades dealing with financial disasters.
She slid a form toward me.
“How can I help you, Ms. Mercer?””
“I need copies of every account connected to my name.””
“Which accounts?””
I handed her the documents.
She read them carefully.
Then she looked at me.
“Who has been managing these accounts?””
“My father.””
Her eyebrows rose.
“Are you listed as the beneficial owner?””
“Yes.””
“Are you listed as the account holder?””
“On some of them.””
She studied the brokerage statement.
“This account is substantial.””
“I know.””
“Have you received statements?””
“No.””
“Ever?””
“No.””
Ms. Harper leaned back.
“That is unusual.””
“I was nineteen when it started.””
She nodded slowly.
“Do you have identification?””
I handed it over.
She entered information into her computer.
A few seconds passed.
Then she stopped typing.
“I need to verify something.””
“What?””
She looked at me.
“You're listed as the sole beneficial owner of this investment account.””
I felt my throat tighten.
“Sole?””
“Yes.””
“Not my father?””
“No.””
“Not my mother?””
“No.””
“Not my brother?””
“No.””
She turned the screen toward me.
“My father's name is listed as an authorized manager.””
“What does that mean?””
“It means he was permitted to make certain transactions on your behalf.””
“Without telling me?””
“That depends on the original authorization.””
“Can I see it?””
She printed a document.
I recognized my name.
Then I saw the signature.
I stared at it.
It was supposed to be mine.
But it wasn't.
I knew my signature.
I'd signed mortgage payments, employment contracts, rental agreements, car loans, tax forms.
This looked nothing like my signature.
The slant was wrong.
The spacing was wrong.
Even the middle initial was different.
“That isn't my signature.””
Ms. Harper became very still.
“Are you certain?””
“Yes.””
She looked closely.
“Have you ever authorized anyone to sign financial documents for you?””
“No.””
She made another copy.
“Then I recommend you do not sign anything related to the property until this is fully reviewed.””
“I wasn't planning to.””
“There may also be a larger issue.””
“What?””
She pulled up another record.
“There's a withdrawal from this account five years ago.””
“How much?””
“Eighty thousand dollars.””
My heart stopped.
“Where did it go?””
“An outgoing wire.””
“To whom?””
She read the destination.
Then looked at me again.
“The recipient is listed as Mercer Holdings LLC.””
I frowned.
“What is that?””
“I don't know yet.””
“Can you tell me who owns it?””
She typed again.
A few seconds later, her expression changed.
“What?””
She turned the monitor toward me.
I read the registration.
*MERCER HOLDINGS LLC*
Managing member:
*Brent Mercer*
I stared at the screen.
“No.””
Ms. Harper said nothing.
“Brent doesn't own a company.””
“He does according to this record.””
“When was it formed?””
“Five years ago.””
The same year the $80,000 disappeared.
My hands went cold.
“Can I get the wire documents?””
“Yes.””
“And every transfer made by my father?””
“We can provide account records.””
“How far back?””
“As far as the records are available.””
“Everything.””
She nodded.
“I'll have those prepared.””
I sat there trying to breathe.
Five years ago.
Brent formed a company.
My money was wired into it.
Then, three weeks ago, he appeared on the title to my family home.
The pieces weren't scattered anymore.
They were beginning to line up.
When I returned to my parents' house, Dad was already waiting in the driveway.
He stepped toward my car as soon as I parked.
“Where were you?””
I shut off the engine.
“At the bank.””
His face changed.
“What did you do?””
“I asked questions.””
“You had no right to do that.””
I slowly opened my door.
“My money. My account. My name.””
“You're making a mistake.””
“Am I?””
Dad grabbed the top of the car door.
“I told you everything.””
“No.””
“I told you what you needed to know.””
“You told me what you couldn't hide anymore.””
He stepped back.
“Cassidy, listen to me.””
I pulled out the document from the bank.
“I found an $80,000 transfer.””
Dad went completely still.
“Where did you send it?””
His lips parted.
No answer.
“Mercer Holdings LLC.””
His face drained of color.
“Who owns it?””
Silence.
“Dad.””
He looked toward the house.
Then toward me.
“Brent does.””
“I know.””
He closed his eyes.
“Then you know.””
“Know what?””
Dad whispered, “What he did.””
I felt my stomach twist.
“What did Brent do?””
Before Dad could answer, the front door opened.
Brent stepped onto the porch.
He had heard us.
His eyes went immediately to the paper in my hand.
“You went to the bank.””
“Yes.””
He came down the steps.
“Cassidy, let me explain.””
“You're going to.””
He stopped in front of me.
“What did you do with my eighty thousand dollars?””
Brent looked at Dad.
Then at me.
“I invested it.””
“In what?””
“Real estate.””
“My money?””
“I was going to pay you back.””
“When?””
“When it made money.””
I stared at him.
“How much did you make?””
He didn't answer.
“That wasn't a trick question.””
He looked away.
“How much?””
Brent finally whispered, “More than you think.””
I stepped closer.
“Then where is it?””
His face hardened.
“It's gone.””
The word landed like a slap.
“Gone?””
“I lost it.””
“All eighty thousand?””
“No.””
“How much?””
He looked at the ground.
“Most of it.””
I laughed in disbelief.
“You lost my inheritance.””
“I was trying to save the family.””
“No.””
I shook my head.
“You were trying to save yourself.””
Dad suddenly grabbed Brent's arm.
“Stop.””
Brent pulled free.
“It's too late.””
I looked between them.
“What does that mean?””
Brent's eyes met mine.
“It means the $74,000 refinance wasn't the worst part.””
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope.
Then he handed it to me.
“There was another loan.””
I unfolded the paper.
My eyes moved across the page.
The lender.
The collateral.
The amount.
And at the bottom, in a place marked *Guarantor*, was my name.
I looked up at Brent.
“I never signed this.””
“I know.””
“Then how is my name here?””
He swallowed.
“Because Dad used the power of attorney.””
My blood ran cold.
“What power of attorney?””
Brent's face went white.
“The one you signed at nineteen.””
I stared at him.
“I never signed a power of attorney.””
Dad whispered from behind him.
“You did.””
And then I noticed the date on the document.
The same date as the day Grandpa's inheritance was transferred.
Twenty years ago.
The signature at the bottom looked exactly like the fake signature the bank had just shown me.
May you like
And underneath it was a sentence that made my knees weak:
*This authority shall remain in effect until revoked in writing.*
