My father-in-law mocked me for arriving in court without a lawyer. He had no idea I was a former military attorney.

My hands turned cold. “That account has my name on it.”

“Exactly, Samantha.”

“Nicole, I do not even have online access codes for that account.”

“I figured as much,” Nicole replied, pointing her finger at the verification log. “I had a digital investigator pull the routing metadata. Every single wire transfer was initiated from the exact same physical machine and local network.”

She looked directly into my eyes across the table.

“Samantha, those transfers were completed from the home computer inside your house in New Canaan.”

PART 4

There were only three computers inside that house.

Wyatt kept his personal office laptop locked with biometric passcodes at all times. Gregory had an old desktop in the library that had not been turned on in five years. The last one was my white laptop,

which sat on the desk where I coordinated charity drives, museum fundraisers, and social galas for Madeline.

My personal laptop had my login written on a sticky note under the keyboard tray, because I never imagined I needed to protect myself inside my own home.

Only a few people visited that house often enough to sit in my study.

Wyatt lived there, and Madeline came by for coffee on Tuesdays.

The other regular visitor was Paige Miller.

Paige had been my closest confidante for over five years. We organized the regional hospital fundraiser together every single winter. When my mother fell terminally ill in 2021, Paige stayed at our place to cover my community duties while I traveled back and forth to Cincinnati. She knew where I kept my notes,

and she had once teased me about using simple passwords.

I spent an hour trying to convince myself that there was some innocent explanation.

Then I drove across town to visit the notary who stamped the document.

Hazel Higgins lived in a quiet white house near the shoreline, with neat flower beds and a small brass sign beside the bell that read Notary Public. She was well into her seventies, wearing soft wool sweaters and wire spectacles. When she opened the door and recognized my face, she reached up and touched her collar nervously.

“Mrs. Palmer.”

“I am not here to cause an argument, Mrs. Higgins,” I said gently. “I just need to ask you about one specific document from two years ago.”

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside to let me enter.

Her living room smelled of dried lavender and wax polish, though she seemed too anxious to offer any refreshments.

I pulled out the photocopy of Exhibit Four, pointing to her official purple stamp and the signature bearing my name, dated October 9, 2021.

“Do you happen to keep an official registry book for your work?” I asked.

“A proper notary must always record every transaction,” she replied softly, her voice wavering.

She walked over to a wooden secretary desk and retrieved a heavy spiral ledger.

She opened it to the page for October 9, 2021, where neat handwriting filled the lines.

Postnuptial Property Agreement. Signer: Samantha Palmer. Identity verified by credible witness: Paige Miller.

I stared at Paige’s signature until my eyes burned.

“Mrs. Higgins, on October ninth of 2021,

I was sitting inside a hospice facility in Cincinnati, holding my mother’s hand. She passed away two days later.”

The elderly woman turned completely pale and started to shake.

“Madeline Palmer called me that morning,” she whispered through trembling lips. “We have lived in the same neighborhood for forty years. She told me you were grief-stricken and bedridden, that you had already signed the paperwork, and that Paige was authorized to verify your identity to save you the trip. She assured me it was just a routine family matter, so I never looked at your face.”

She covered her eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was foolish to bend the rules for a neighbor, and I am so terribly sorry.”

I knew she was telling the absolute truth. She had not acted out of malice or greed, but had simply trusted an old friend who used her good nature.

Just like I had done with Paige.

“Will you come to court and repeat that exact statement before the judge?” I asked.

She wiped her eyes and nodded without hesitation. “Yes, I will tell the judge exactly what happened.”

I left her home and drove straight over to Paige’s brick townhouse, sitting in my car by the curb for twenty minutes to gather my thoughts.

Part of me still prayed that someone else had forged Paige’s name, and that she would be outraged when she saw the paperwork.

Then I noticed the vehicle parked in her private driveway.

It was a dark luxury SUV with an alumni decal on the rear glass.

It was Wyatt’s car.