“Yes,” he said.

“And the amendments?” I asked.

“The ones that gave Margaret total control over the girls’ money?”

“Forgeries,” Vale admitted, his head dropping into his hands.

“We used a signature specialist in New York. Margaret paid him fifty thousand dollars to mimic your late husband’s handwriting.”

My chest tightened with a mix of blinding anger and sudden, overwhelming relief.

For years, I had been told I was crazy, that my late husband had left us at his mother’s mercy.

But it had all been a lie, spun by the woman who was currently waiting outside the gates.

“Sign the confession, Thomas,” Richard said, his voice low.

Vale picked up the pen.

His hand shook so violently that the first stroke of his signature was jagged and uneven.

But he signed it.

He signed three separate copies, his breathing shallow and rapid in the quiet room.

Nora immediately pulled the papers back, checking the signatures with a practiced, careful eye.

“Good,” she said, nodding at Richard.

“Now, we need the key to that safe.”

Vale reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a small leather key pouch.