But there was something wrong with the date.

The date at the top of the page was October fourteenth.

I stared at the numbers, a cold realization washing over me.

“Elena,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“What is it, Claire?” Elena asked, leaning in close.

I pointed to the date on the paper Patricia was holding.

“October fourteenth was the day of my father’s funeral,” I said.

“I wasn’t even in the country,” I added.

Patricia’s smile faltered, her grip on the paper tightening.

“That doesn’t matter,” Patricia said, her voice rising slightly. “The signature is notarized.”

“By whom?” Elena asked, stepping around the table.

She snatched the document from Patricia’s hand before the older woman could pull it back.

Elena flipped to the second page, her eyes scanning the notary seal.

She stopped, a grim smile appearing on her face.

“Well, well,” Elena said, looking up at the board.

“It seems we have the exact same notary stamp,” she added.

“The same notary who just signed a confession in my briefcase,” I said.

Patricia’s face went completely white, the color draining from her cheeks in an instant.