Chapter 5 - The Signature He Couldn't Explain
“Did you sign this?”
I held the letter between two fingers as though it were something contaminated.
Vincent looked at the signature.
“No.”
“Then explain why your name is on it.”
He didn't reach for the paper.
Instead, he opened his desk drawer and removed a business card bearing the Moretti company seal.
“My office uses an approved signature image for certain correspondence. Celia and my executive assistant have permission to use it on routine documents.”
“So someone can send letters in your name?”
“Within limits.”
I gave a bitter laugh.
“Apparently those limits don't include ruining somebody's life.”
He accepted the criticism without defending himself.
Then his expression changed.
“Wait.”
He opened his computer and searched through several emails.
Finally, he found one dated the morning after the incident.
It was from Celia Ward.
The subject line read: GRAND BELL INCIDENT — REPUTATIONAL EXPOSURE.
Attached was a brief summary recommending that employees involved in the disturbance be kept away from Moretti-controlled properties until the investigation was complete.
Vincent leaned back.
“I approved the precaution.”
My heart sank.
“You what?”
“I told Celia to keep anyone connected to the incident away from our properties until I knew whether someone had deliberately endangered me.”
“Anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Including me?”
He looked at the letter in my hand.
“I hadn't seen the video yet. I didn't know your name was being used.”
“But you signed off on it.”
“I authorized a temporary internal restriction. Not a campaign against you.”
I placed the letter on his desk.
“Your company sent these warnings. Dennis used that video. Seventeen restaurant owners decided I wasn't worth hiring.”
Vincent lowered his eyes.
“Then my authorization helped make it possible.”
It was the first time he had admitted responsibility for anything beyond thanking me.
I sat down because my knees suddenly felt weak.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You don't have to forgive me.”
“I don't even know if I believe you.”
“Then don't believe me without proof.”
He turned the computer toward me.
“Find someone independent to examine these records. Choose your own attorney if you want one. I'll preserve the originals and cooperate.”
I studied him.
Most powerful men I had encountered expected gratitude for admitting even a small mistake.
Vincent seemed to understand that an apology wouldn't pay my rent.
“Will you tell those restaurants the warnings were wrong?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Not privately. Publicly.”
He paused.
Then nodded.
“I will.”
“And I want the hospital records from that night preserved.”
“They already are.”
“Not just yours. The ambulance report, the restaurant recordings, everything.”
He looked surprised by my insistence.
But he agreed.
I rose to leave.
“Paige,” he said.
I turned.
“Why did you refuse the money?”
I looked at the envelope still sitting on a side table, where he had placed it after our visit to my apartment.
“Because the minute I take it, somebody will say I was paid to tell your version of the story.”
He considered that.
“Then I won't offer it again.”
Outside his office, Gabriel was waiting near the elevator.
He didn't attempt to speak.
I appreciated that.
I took the bus home.
For the first time in days, I wasn't thinking about finding another restaurant willing to hire me.
I was thinking about my mother.
Specifically, the last letter she had received from Harborview Medical Center.
It sat in a shoebox beneath my bed, along with her prescriptions, appointment cards, insurance statements, and the handwritten notes she had made when she was too tired to remember which bill belonged to which treatment.
That evening, I spread everything across the kitchen table.
My mother's name appeared again and again.
Margaret Elaine Cooper.
She had spent forty years working, paying taxes, helping neighbors, and making sure I never felt poor even when money was tight.
And now her name was attached to thousands of dollars in unpaid medical charges.
I noticed something I had never paid much attention to before.
Several statements carried a small printed reference.
HRT-0417.
I had assumed it was a hospital billing code.
But after hearing Gabriel describe the Harbor Relief Trust, the initials suddenly bothered me.
The next morning, I visited Harborview's patient financial services office.
A tired-looking woman named Mrs. Ellison listened as I explained that I was trying to understand my late mother's outstanding account.
She checked my identification, confirmed my authorization as the estate representative, and pulled up the billing history.
At first, everything seemed ordinary.
Then she stopped scrolling.
“That's strange.”
My heart quickened.
“What is?”
Mrs. Ellison adjusted her glasses.
“Your mother applied for charitable assistance before her final treatment series.”
“I know. She told me the application was denied.”
The woman frowned.
“According to this record, it wasn't.”
I leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
“Her account was approved for full assistance.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
“That can't be right. We received collection letters.”
“I can see that.”
She printed a summary.
The first page showed my mother's application.
The second listed the medical charges.
Then came a line that made my hands begin trembling.
HARBOR RELIEF TRUST — ASSISTANCE APPROVED.
The approved amount was $38,640.
Almost exactly what the collection agency claimed we still owed.
“Where did the money go?” I whispered.
Mrs. Ellison examined the screen.
“The trust reported that payment had been authorized. But the hospital never received the funds.”
“Could that be a mistake?”
“Possibly. You should request a formal reconciliation.”
I looked down at the paperwork.
My mother had spent the final weeks of her life worrying about bills that were supposed to be covered.
She had apologized to me for leaving debts.
She had cried because she thought her illness would become my burden.
And somewhere, in an account controlled by people she had never met, someone had approved the money and failed to deliver it.
Then Mrs. Ellison pointed to another line.
“This is unusual, too.”
“What?”
“The assistance was marked as disbursed three days before your mother's final hospital admission.”
My chest tightened.
“Then why did the hospital keep charging her?”
Mrs. Ellison looked genuinely troubled.
“I can't answer that.”
She turned the page toward me.
Beneath the payment entry was an administrative reference showing which outside office had confirmed the transaction.
MORETTI HARBOR HOLDINGS.
May you like
And directly below it was the approving officer's name.
Celia Ward.
