chooses the wrong response.
“I own what?”
He pushed the page toward me.
There was my name.
My Social Security number.
My birth date.
My old apartment address.
And at the bottom—
a signature.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
My skin went cold.
“That’s forged.”
Melissa leaned forward.
“You’re certain?”
“I’m looking at my own name. Yes, I’m certain.”
Daniel pulled out more paperwork.
Loan applications.
Business registrations.
A personal guarantee.
A line of credit.
A refinancing agreement scheduled to close that week.
Dad was listed as
