Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE OF A DEAD MAN
My father had been dead for three days when someone used his signature to sell the only building he had ever owned.
I discovered it thirty thousand feet above the ground, while my billionaire husband was calling to ask why I had left him.
The second notification on my phone wasn't another call from Ethan.
It was a photograph from Rosa Delgado, the woman who owned the little grocery store beside Dad's old surveying office.
The photograph showed a bright orange notice taped to the front door.
PROPERTY ACQUIRED BY MONROE SHORE HOLDINGS. SITE CLEARANCE SCHEDULED.
Beneath those words was something that made my stomach turn.
AUTHORIZED BY: CLAIRE BENNETT BLACKWOOD.
My name.
My signature.
Except I had never signed anything.
Rosa's message appeared beneath the photograph.
Honey, two men came this afternoon and measured your daddy's building. They said everything inside has to be cleared by Monday. Did you sell it?
I stared at the screen.
Dad had owned Bennett Survey & Drafting for thirty-six years.
It was a narrow brick building near the Chicago River, with scratched wooden floors, crooked filing cabinets, and an old brass sign he polished every Christmas.
He had refused offers to sell it, even when medical bills began swallowing his savings.
"That building put you through college," he'd told me. "Someday, it can give you a fresh start."
And now somebody was trying to take it before his funeral flowers had wilted.
My phone vibrated again.
ETHAN BLACKWOOD.
I rejected the call.
Then I enlarged Rosa's photograph.
Near the bottom of the notice was a company logo I recognized.
Monroe Shore Holdings.
Vanessa Monroe.
My husband's mistress.
For two years, I'd believed Vanessa wanted my marriage.
Apparently, she wanted my father's property, too.
I forwarded the photograph to my divorce attorney, Rebecca Collins, with one sentence.
Find out who authorized this. I never did.
Then I finally answered Ethan's call.
"Claire, where are you?"
His voice sounded different.
Less irritated.
Almost frightened.
"On my way to Seattle."
"Turn around."
I looked out at the clouds.
"No."
"Your father died, and nobody told me."
"I called you seventeen times the night he died."
Silence.
Then he said, "I was told he was stable."
"By whom?"
"Vanessa said she'd spoken with someone at the hospital."
I shut my eyes.
"Vanessa?"
"Claire, listen—"
"My father was dying, and you asked your mistress to check on him?"
"That's not what happened."
"Then explain why you were holding her on a beach at the exact moment he took his last breath."
He didn't answer.
I continued quietly.
"Do you remember telling me your money kept my father alive?"
"Claire, I didn't know—"
"He died at 2:47 in the morning. I was holding his hand. I couldn't afford to fall apart because I had to make decisions by myself."
His breathing changed.
"I'll come get you."
"No, Ethan. You won't."
"You're my wife."
"Not for much longer."
I almost ended the call.
Then I remembered the notice.
"One more thing. Did you authorize the sale of my father's building?"
"What building?"
"Bennett Survey & Drafting."
A pause.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Your girlfriend's company claims it owns it."
His silence lasted too long.
"Ethan?"
"Claire, don't sign anything until I investigate."
My blood went cold.
"I haven't signed anything."
I disconnected.
For the first time since Dad died, my grief had found something harder than sadness.
Anger.
When I landed in Seattle, my old friend Nora Dawson was waiting near baggage claim.
Nora and I had met in college. She now worked with a nonprofit that restored historic neighborhood buildings.
She took one look at my face and wrapped her arms around me.
"I'm sorry about your dad."
That was all it took.
I cried against her shoulder until I could barely breathe.
She didn't rush me.
When I finally pulled away, I showed her the photograph.
Nora studied it.
"Claire, this isn't just a real estate transaction. It's part of the Canal Landing redevelopment."
"I've heard of it."
Of course I had.
Ethan's company was building a luxury residential and commercial development along the Chicago River.
The project was worth nearly nine hundred million dollars.
Ethan had celebrated securing the financing six months earlier.
I'd been at the hospital with Dad that night.
Nora turned her laptop toward me after we reached her apartment.
"Look."
A map filled the screen.
Canal Landing stretched across several blocks of aging warehouses, storefronts, and small residential buildings.
My father's office stood directly beside the planned main entrance.
"Without that parcel," Nora said, "they may have to redesign the entire access road."
I remembered something Dad had said during his final month.
People can take your money, Claire. Don't let them take your name.
I'd thought he was talking about my marriage.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Rebecca called just after midnight, Chicago time.
"I pulled the public recording information," she said. "There is a deed claiming your father transferred the building to Monroe Shore Holdings."
"When?"
"The document says he signed it while he was hospitalized."
"That's impossible. He was barely conscious."
"There's more. The electronic certification was completed after his death."
I gripped Dad's wristwatch.
"What time?"
"Three seventeen in the morning."
My father's heart had stopped at 2:47.
Someone had certified his signature thirty minutes after he died.
Rebecca explained that the timing did not automatically invalidate a transaction if documents had genuinely been signed earlier.
"But this certification claims your father personally completed the verification at 3:17," she continued. "That's very different."
"What can we do?"
"I'm challenging the transfer and contacting the city about the proposed clearance. No one should be allowed to touch that property while ownership is disputed."
"Thank you."
"Claire, there's one more thing."
I waited.
"The transfer packet contains a separate authorization approving site clearance."
"With my forged signature?"
"Yes. But another person signed the corporate approval."
I already knew whose name she was going to say.
Still, hearing it hurt.
"Ethan Blackwood."
I lowered myself onto Nora's sofa.
My husband had ignored the calls announcing my father's death.
He had threatened to stop paying his medical bills.
And now his signature was connected to the destruction of Dad's life's work.
Rebecca sent me an image of the authorization.
There it was.
Ethan's unmistakable sweeping signature.
Dated two days after my father's funeral.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Then another detail caught my attention.
Across the bottom of the page, beside a small checkbox, someone had typed:
OWNER NOTIFIED OF DEMOLITION AND VOLUNTARILY WAIVED ALL OBJECTIONS.
The owner listed underneath was me.
May you like
I had been standing beside my father's grave when that supposed notification occurred.
And according to the document, the person who had personally witnessed my consent was my husband.
