I stepped closer and picked up the folder before Jake could stop me.
The paper smelled like toner and manila. The signature at the bottom of the power of attorney looked like mine.
Almost.
It was smooth, careful, confident.
Too smooth.
“You said I signed this in my kitchen?” I asked.
Jake shrugged. “The day before you left.”
“I left from my office.”
He blinked.
Mom’s hand froze around her napkin. Dad stopped nodding.
I turned another page. Default notice. County recording receipt. Payoff letter. Every document was another brick in a story everyone had accepted because it made me look helpless and Jake look heroic.
But lies, even polished ones, still have seams.