My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“She says she spent three months in a plaster cast after the accident,” I whispered, leaning closer to him. “But I remember that winter. She was carving the Thanksgiving turkey three weeks after the crash. She didn’t have a cast on.”
Christopher paused, his fingers resting on the base of the silver creamer.
“People who are injured do not usually make up stories about plaster casts,” he said. “Unless they need a record of a severe injury for an insurance claim.”
“Or a lawsuit,” I added.
“Look at this,” Christopher said, tilting the silver creamer so the light caught the bottom of the vessel.
I leaned in, my eyes focusing on a small, elegant monogram engraved just above the rim.
It was not my family’s initials.
The letters were bold and blocky, interlaced in a style that looked like a corporate seal.
“F.V.T.,” I read aloud.
“First Valley Trust,” Christopher said, his voice dropping to a low, dry rumble. “It is a private bank in the city. They handled my commercial loan when I was trying to keep my carpentry shop open after the accident.”
