It had been submitted as part of the proposed property arrangement.
The signature at the bottom appeared to be mine.
But the date was impossible.
It showed that I had signed the document at a hospital in another state on a day when I had been attending my husband's funeral.
I stared at the copy.
I remembered that day.
I remembered standing beside Richard's grave.
I remembered Daniel holding my arm.
I remembered the rain falling against the black umbrella.
I had never been in that hospital.
And I had never signed that document.
Thomas studied the page.
"Now we have something concrete to investigate."
I nodded.
But before he could continue, his phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then his expression changed.
"What do you mean the buyer is coming tomorrow?"
He listened again.
"Do not let anyone remove anything from the property."
He ended the call.
I looked at him.
"What happened?"
Thomas slowly placed his phone on the desk.
"Eleanor, someone has arranged for a representative of the property company to inspect your house tomorrow morning."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"But they have no right to enter."
"You're correct. And they have been informed that the ownership is disputed and that you have not authorized any sale."
I stood up.
"Then why are they coming?"
Thomas looked at me.
"That is exactly what we need to find out."
The following morning, I was sitting in my kitchen when a black SUV pulled into the driveway.
A man stepped out carrying a leather folder.
He walked toward my front door and knocked three times.
I opened it.
"Good morning," he said politely. "I'm here regarding the property transaction."
I stared at him.
"There is no property transaction."
He looked confused.
"According to my instructions, the estate representatives have approved an inspection."
"Then your instructions are wrong."
He checked his folder.
"Are you Eleanor Whitmore?"
"Yes."
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I was told this property was already vacant."
Before I could answer, another car entered the driveway.
Daniel stepped out.
He looked directly at the man.
Then he looked at me.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I saw genuine fear in my son's eyes.
Because he knew something I didn't.
The man standing on my doorstep was not simply a property inspector.
He was carrying a document that Daniel had never expected me to see.
And when he opened the folder, I recognized the signature at the bottom immediately.
It was mine.
Or at least, someone had done an extraordinary job of making it look like mine.
But the most shocking discovery was not the forged signature. It was the name of the person listed as the final beneficiary of the entire transaction.
And it wasn't Daniel.
It was Vanessa.
I looked at my son.
"Daniel, what have you done?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Then the man holding the folder quietly said:
"Mrs. Whitmore, I think you should know that this transaction was scheduled to be completed today."
I stepped backward.
Outside, Daniel began shouting at someone on his phone.
And suddenly, I understood that the battle for my home was not over.
It was only entering its most dangerous stage.
The man standing at my front door introduced himself as Robert Hayes. He represented a property investment company called Westbridge Holdings.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I understand this is unexpected, but our company has received documentation indicating that the property is available for transfer."
I looked at him.
"Available for transfer by whom?"
He opened his folder and showed me the paperwork.
The document claimed that I had authorized the sale of my house several weeks earlier. It contained my full name, my address, and a signature that looked almost identical to the one I had used for decades.
Almost.
But there was something wrong with it.
The final letter of my surname was too long. My signature always ended with a small upward stroke. Whoever had copied it had made the line curve downward.
It was a tiny detail.
But it was my signature.
And I knew it better than anyone.
"This is a forgery," I said.
Robert looked uncomfortable.
"Ma'am, I can't make that determination."
"Then perhaps you should call the attorney who has already informed your company that this property is not for sale."
He checked another page.
"Your son is listed as the authorized family representative."
I turned toward Daniel.
"Authorized by whom?"
He didn't answer.
I looked back at Robert.
"I am the legal owner. I have never authorized my son to sell this property. I have never authorized Westbridge Holdings to enter my home. And I certainly haven't agreed to move."
Robert slowly closed the folder.