“Could Claire’s signature have been added afterward?”
“Yes.”
Leah exhaled slowly.
“Do not confront the principal about this tonight. Send me copies, then secure the originals.”
“What could a fake scholarship accomplish?”
“It could conceal payments, redirect funds, or create the appearance that your family owed the school a debt. It might also be entirely unrelated to finances.”
“That anonymous caller said it was not about money.”
“You received a call?”
I told her what the man had said.
“Someone inside the school may be trying to help,” she said, “or trying to lead you toward a particular conclusion.”
I looked at Emma sleeping on the mattress.
“Either way, they know our records.”
“Which means you should assume they know more about your family than you expected.”
After the call, I moved the documents into a small fireproof case and locked it in my home office.
Sleep did not come easily.
I kept thinking about Claire’s forged signature.
She had been a music teacher before Emma was born. Warm, patient, and capable of remembering every child’s favorite song, she had believed schools were built on trust.
She would have been furious about what happened to Emma.
She also would have warned me not to let anger replace judgment.
Near midnight, I opened an old box of Claire’s belongings. I found birthday cards, appointment notes, photographs, and a stack of letters tied with green ribbon.
I was not searching for anything specific. I only needed to see her real handwriting.
The forged signature was close enough to fool someone who had seen her name on documents. It was not close enough to fool me.
At the bottom of the box lay a school brochure.
Westbridge Academy.
Emma’s school.
