The signature at the bottom read *Claire Caldwell*, but the handwriting was stiff and uneven.

“That’s not Claire’s signature,” I said, leaning closer. “She always looped her ‘C’s differently.”

“Vanessa forged it,” Benjamin said, his voice shaking with a mixture of grief and rage.

He clicked on a video file.

The video was a low-quality security recording of a clinic office.

A woman was sitting at a desk, speaking to a man in a white lab coat.

Even with the poor resolution, the woman’s sharp profile and blonde hair were unmistakable.

It was Vanessa.

The man in the lab coat handed her a stack of files.

“This is Vance’s office,” Marcus said from behind us, his voice cutting through the tension.

“I recognize the layout. We did a security audit on his clinic three years ago when Vanessa asked for extra guards.”

“Why would she need guards for a fertility clinic?” I asked.

“She said there were protesters,” Marcus replied. “But now I think she was keeping people away from the records.”

Benjamin clicked on another document in the folder.