My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
Christopher leaned forward, his chair scraping against the linoleum. He squinted at the faded type. “Forty-five thousand dollars. That is the exact amount the insurance company paid out for her injuries.”
“But she was not injured,” I said. “She told my father she was, and she told the insurance company she was. She used the money to pay off the deputy who wrote the report.”
I pulled a yellow notepad from the drawer by the sink. I took a black ballpoint pen and began to trace the signature of the deputy from the accident report. His name was Deputy Thomas Miller. I copied the loops of his capital T and the long, lazy tail of his letter M.
“Why are you doing that?” Christopher asked, his slow, gravelly rumble very quiet.
“Because I want to see if his hand was shaking when he signed it,” I said. “And I want to compare it to the signature on the county payroll records later today.”
“Your father knows about this,” Christopher said.
