Chapter 13 - THE MAN BEHIND THE SIGNATURE
Richard Kane wasn’t family.
That made him easier to understand.
He wanted money.
According to investigators, Paige had met him almost two years earlier.
He worked in mortgage processing.
Not high enough to control everything.
High enough to manipulate plenty.
Kane helped fabricate verification records.
He coached Margaret and Paige through applications.
He provided fake document templates.
In return, he received a cut.
The deeper police looked, the worse it became.
My family hadn’t made one bad decision.
They had built a machine.
Fake credit.
Forged loans.
Stolen correspondence.
False emails.
Manipulated photographs.
And Gwen was trapped in the center of it.
Three days after my return, police arrested Kane.
Paige lasted another eleven hours.
Airport security flagged her identity when she tried using a replacement passport under a slightly altered name.
She was arrested near the international terminal.
Margaret’s attorney immediately claimed she had been manipulated by Paige.
Paige’s attorney blamed Margaret.
Kane blamed both.
Everybody suddenly became a victim.
Everybody except the woman who actually was one.
Gwen remained in the hospital for six days.
Her doctors restarted the treatment plan.
They were cautiously optimistic.
The cancer had not spread the way I feared.
Her body was weak, but she still had a strong chance.
The first night she came to the temporary apartment Marcus helped us find, she stood in the bedroom doorway.
“You hate me?”
The question hit me like a punch.
“For what?”
“For believing them.”
I walked to her.
“No.”
“For not telling you.”
“You tried.”
“I should’ve tried harder.”
“So should I.”
She looked confused.
“I should’ve noticed.”
“You were thousands of miles away.”
“I still should’ve asked more questions.”
She shook her head.
Then she said something that stayed with me.
“We were both talking to people pretending to be each other.”
That was exactly what had happened.
Margaret had told me Gwen was tired.
Gwen was emotional.
Gwen didn’t want to talk.
Meanwhile, she told Gwen I was angry.
I was distant.
I blamed her.
Two people who loved each other had been separated by lies delivered through voices they trusted.
I held her.
For the first time since I came home, Gwen put both arms around me.
Then she started crying into my chest.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I never hated you.”
“I thought our daughter died and you were glad.”
My throat closed.
“I would have given anything to be here.”
She whispered, “Her name was Lily.”
I froze.
“You named her?”
Gwen nodded.
Then she walked to a closet.
From the bottom of her bag, she removed a tiny white box.
Inside was a hospital bracelet.
A sonogram photograph.
And a folded letter.
“For you,” she said.
“When did you write it?”
“The night I lost her.”
I opened it.
The first line read:
David, if they ever tell you I stopped loving you, don’t believe them.
And underneath the letter was something else.
A flash drive.
Gwen looked at it.
“I forgot I still had that.”
“What’s on it?”
Her face changed.
May you like
“The night Margaret told me you were dead.”
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