It was his distinct, aggressive cursive, written with the heavy pen my father had gifted him.

“He didn’t use the digital key for these,” I whispered, tracing the ink with my finger.

“He couldn’t,” Vanessa said. “The bank’s security protocols required a wet signature for high-value transfers. He signed them himself, thinking the physical copies would be archived in the bank’s vault and never audited.”

“This is the direct link,” I said, looking from the papers to her pale face. “This proves he authorized the movement of the money, not you.”

“He knows I have them,” she said, grabbing my wrist. “His contact at the bank called him when I requested the physical records from the archive this afternoon.”

“That is why he was calling you,” I said.

“He wants these back, Emma,” she said, her grip tightening. “If he gets these papers, I have nothing to protect myself. I will go to prison.”

I looked down at the signature that had once represented my marriage, now representing the ruin of my family’s legacy.