Me.
I photographed everything: the forged agreement, the notary seal from one of Brenda’s country club friends, the IRS notice, the vendor contracts, the loans opened using my Social Security number. Then I sent every file to Valerie.
Her response arrived before sunrise.
“Do not panic. I’m sending you an attorney.”
By nine the next morning, I stood inside the walk-in cooler with my phone pressed against my ear, watching my parents through the small glass window. Brenda flipped through a magazine, circling flower arrangements for Harper’s baby shower. Richard drank coffee I had brewed for him.
On the line was Marcus Vance, a corporate attorney in New Orleans whose voice sounded sharp enough to cut through steel.
“You’re telling me,” he said, “that you are the sole registered owner because of a forged transfer?”
“Yes.”
