“He means she agreed verbally.
She told us she would help with the baby.”
I looked at him.
“I offered to drive Jessica to appointments.
I never offered you my SUV.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“No,” I said.
“It isn’t.”
The responder raised the gift form.
“And a verbal agreement would not explain why her signature appears here.”
Lucas glanced at the page, then at my phone.
“Dad, stop talking.”
That was the first sensible thing he had said all evening.
Dad ignored him.
“Elina has always been dramatic about money,” he continued.
“I paid for plenty of things when she was growing up.
That vehicle is the least she can do for her brother.”
I felt the old reflex rise inside me—the urge to explain, defend, and present an itemized history of everything I had earned without his help.
I let the urge pass.
The title in the responder’s hand was enough.
The loan payoff confirmation was enough.
Dad’s voice on speaker was enough.
“Who notarized this form?” the responder asked.
He turned it toward the parking lot lights and read the name beneath the seal.
Claire Benton.
I knew her immediately.
Claire had managed the front office at Dad’s construction company for nearly fifteen years.
She attended my parents’ holiday dinners, brought casseroles when relatives were sick, and called my mother her best friend.
She also knew my signature.
Claire had once helped me prepare employment paperwork when I worked for Dad during college.
She had seen me sign dozens of forms.
The responder asked whether I had appeared before Claire that morning.
“I was at work from eight until after six,” I said.
“My building has badge records and cameras.”
He nodded and spoke quietly into his radio, requesting a supervisor and providing the vehicle identification number.
Lucas’s irritation turned into fear.
