“I was there,” Sloane said, keeping her voice high and clear.

“I witnessed the signature myself at the corporate office five years ago.”

“Sit down, Ms. Pierce,” the judge commanded, her voice dropping an octave.

Sloane slowly sank back into the leather bench.

A court clerk brought a photocopied version of the document to our table.

Deborah grabbed it immediately, pulling it between us.

I leaned in, my breath catching in my throat.

The document was dated October 14, five years ago.

At the bottom of the page was my signature.

It looked exactly like my handwriting.

The sweeping ‘C’, the sharp slant of the ‘l’, the tiny dot far above the ‘i’.

“Cassandra?” Deborah whispered, her eyes searching mine. “Did you sign this?”

“No,” I said.

I stared at the black ink on the page.

The room seemed to shrink around me.

Gavin was watching me from his table, a smug, familiar grin spreading across his face.

He leaned back and crossed his legs.

He thought he had won.

But as I stared at the signature, a strange detail caught my eye.