Chapter 7 - THE SIGNATURE
The forensic document examiner wanted originals.
There were none.
That limited certainty.
But metadata mattered.
The PDF my brother produced had been created three months after the date printed on the agreement.
Not automatically fraudulent.
Documents get rescanned.
The signature image on the redemption agreement matched, pixel for pixel, a signature from my employment-separation packet.
Same microscopic artifact.
Same scan noise.
Same tiny ink gap.
It had been copied.
Almost certainly.
But who copied it?
Could have been an assistant.
Could have been authorized electronically.
Could have been clerical.
We needed context.
The supposed redemption agreement contained a notary block.
Notary:
Janice Bell.
Retired.
Still alive.
She agreed to an interview.
“Did you notarize Larkin’s signature on a membership redemption?”
She looked at the document.
“No.”
Certain?
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That isn’t my stamp from that year.”
The seal number was wrong.
Her commission had renewed.
The agreement used the newer number despite being dated earlier.
My skin went cold.
Her signature also appeared copied.
She had notarized my employment-separation packet months later under the newer commission.
Someone took the entire signature/notary section and moved it.
That was powerful evidence.
Then my brother’s explanation changed.
He said:
“I relied on staff.”
Which staff?
Former finance manager.
Deceased.
Convenient but not impossible.
We found emails.
My brother to finance manager:
Need final cap table to show Larkin out before lender package.
Finance manager:
Still no signed equity doc.
Brother:
Use separation file for now. Dad will clean it later.
There.
“Use separation file.”
Not explicit instruction to forge.
Very bad.
Then:
Finance manager:
Legal won’t accept that.
Brother:
Internal only.
Except somehow the same document became the estate’s final proof years later.
Naomi cautioned:
“We still need to connect him to the final forged PDF.”
I wanted to call him.
Didn’t.
Growth.
Instead, something worse happened.
A major Norwood Woodworks customer learned about the ownership dispute.
Not from my brother.
From me.
My accusation in the workshop had been overheard by an operations manager.
He told someone.
Rumor spread.
The customer paused a $1.4 million restoration contract pending governance clarity.
Employees started panicking.
My brother called.
“You happy?”
“No.”
“You wanted this.”
“I wanted records.”
“You called me a forger in my own shop.”
“I shouldn’t have said it before proof.”
He went quiet.
My admission surprised him.
Then:
“But I may still be right.”
“You’re destroying Dad’s company.”
“No.”
“You think ownership is a game.”
“I own part of it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
Silence.
Finally something true enough for both of us.
The board—small, family-heavy, badly structured—appointed temporary independent counsel to handle the customer crisis.
May you like
That was the first time Norwood Woodworks began operating as though neither brother’s version was automatically correct.
Dad would have approved.
