The signature read *Eleanor Vance*.

My blood ran cold.

Eleanor was Richard’s aunt, who had died ten years ago.

She had never worked in adoption; she had been a librarian.

“This isn’t real,” I whispered.

“No,” Rose said. “It isn’t. He made those papers himself.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked. “We went through an agency. We paid fees.”

“You paid him, Evelyn,” Rose said. “He told you the money was going to the state and the birth mother.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Look for the bank records,” Rose said. “Look for my name.”

I set the phone on speaker and placed it on the desk.

I reached back into the metal box and pulled out a second folder.

This one was filled with bank statements from a private account Richard kept at a regional bank three towns over.

I had never seen this account name before.

It was labeled *R.V. Consulting*.

I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the columns of numbers.

Every month, like clockwork, there was a withdrawal of two thousand dollars.

Beside each withdrawal was a handwritten note in Richard’s neat, precise print.