Chapter 2

The next day, I took the morning off, but I didn't go to the notary's office. I went to the county recorder's office first.

Notarized documents were always filed on record.

I showed my ID and pulled up a certified copy of the notarized deed transfer.

[Case number: 2025-NY-NTR-08547]

[Date issued: October 14, 2025]

[Subject: Interspousal transfer of real property interest]

[Applicants: David Foster, Aubrey Summers]

I flipped to the signature page, and there they were. Two signatures, two thumbprints.

David's signature was his own. I knew his handwriting better than anyone.

The signature under "Aubrey" looked like mine at first glance, but I studied it three times. When I write the letter Y, I always flick the tail up and to the right. This one pressed down and to the left.

I didn't write this. Someone had forged my signature.

I looked at the thumbprint next. The red ink sat neatly beside the signature, and it looked standard enough, but there was no way to tell with the naked eye whether it was actually mine.

I took photos and made a copy of the entire document.

When I walked out of the records office, I sat down on a bench by the curb. The December sun hung pale and low, and its light carried no warmth.

I pulled out my phone and searched for a simple question. [What's the penalty for forging a notarized document?]

The results loaded instantly. Forgery of notarized documents carried up to three years in prison for serious cases.

If a notary public was involved, they could face charges for both abuse of authority and fraud, with sentences stacked on top of each other.

This wasn't a civil dispute. It was a criminal offense.

I put my phone away.

At one thirty in the afternoon, I walked into Eastgate Notary Office.

The receptionist greeted me with a polite smile. "Hi there, how can I help you today?"

"I'd like to look up the records for a notarized document," I said, and gave her the reference number.

She typed it in, asked me to wait a moment, and disappeared into the back. A minute later, she returned with someone.

The woman was in her mid-thirties, dressed in a fitted navy blue suit, with short hair and flawless makeup.

Her name tag read Linda Foster, Notary Public.

The second I saw her last name, my stomach dropped.

She smiled at me. "Hi, how can I help you? And you are?"

"I'm Aubrey Summers," I said. "One of the applicants listed on that document."

Her smile froze for just a split second. It was barely noticeable, but I caught it.

Linda looked up from her desk. "Oh, hi, Ms. Summers. What can I help you with?"

"I'd like to see the video footage and original signatures from a notarization that was processed here."

Linda replied, "We'd need the individual named on the record to request that in person. Do you have your ID with you?"

I handed over my driver's license.

She took it and glanced down. Her fingertips trembled, just barely. "Give me a moment. I'll pull it up from the back."

She turned and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

I sat in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area for forty minutes.

When she finally came back, she was holding a manila envelope. "Ms. Summers, here's the record from that day. You're welcome to review it."

I opened the envelope and pulled out a processing form.

It read: [October 14, 2025, 10:20 AM. Applicants David and Aubrey appeared in person. Both parties signed a title transfer agreement in the presence of notary Linda Foster, confirming that the jointly owned property would be transferred to David as the sole owner.]

Linda pointed at the bottom of the page. "See, the signatures and fingerprints are all right here."

I stared at the name "Aubrey" on the form. The handwriting matched what I'd seen at the records office. It wasn't mine.

I said, "Ms. Foster."

"Yes?"

"On October 14th at ten twenty in the morning, I was at work at the bank."

Her expression didn't change, but her eyes widened.

I said, "I have my clock-in records from the bank. I was there from eight thirty in the morning until five thirty that evening. The entire day."

Linda smiled, "Ms. Summers, our notarization records show that you appeared in person. If you'd like to dispute that—"

"I want to request a fingerprint analysis," I said, cutting her off. "I believe the fingerprints next to 'Aubrey' on this document are not mine."

She went quiet for a few seconds, and then she smiled. It was the kind of smile people learn in training.

"Fingerprint analysis isn't something our office handles. You'd need to go through a forensic examination service for that."

"I know." I stood up and pulled out my phone, snapping photos of every page in the envelope.

I stopped at the door and turned back to look at her. "Ms. Foster, one more thing—"

"Your last name is Foster. My husband's last name is also Foster. How exactly are you two related?"

The smile on her face finally cracked.