Preston’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Patricia answered for him. “The witness was a notary, of course. Stop wasting our time.” I slid the court filing across the table. “Then you will recognize this name,” I said, pointing to a line near the bottom. “Raymond Teague. He passed away fourteen months before the date on your note.” Andrew’s head snapped up. Preston’s hand began to shake against the briefcase.

Patricia stood so abruptly that the armchair scraped the floor. “That is a clerical error,” she hissed. One of the two men behind her quietly took a step toward the door. Then a knock sounded, firm and unhurried. I opened it, and my attorney, Ms. Okonkwo, walked in with two detectives. “Mrs. Whitfield,” she said, “we have a few questions about a forged promissory note.”