But as I flipped toward the back, the handwriting changed.

It was sloppier, hurried, trying to mimic Alexander’s sharp, precise script.

“Those are transfer records,” Marcus murmured, stepping closer.

He adjusted his glasses, his fingers brushing against the edge of the paper.

“These accounts should not exist,” he added.

I picked up the folder and slid the documents out.

The first page was an authorization form for a foreign bank in Switzerland.

At the bottom, Alexander’s signature was written in dark blue ink.

I held the paper up to the light of the desk lamp.

The pressure of the pen was wrong.

Alexander always pressed down hard on the loops of his letters.

This signature was light, almost floating on the surface of the paper.

“It is a forgery,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

It was one of the few times I spoke aloud in this house.

Sofia stared at me, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Are you sure, Nina?” she asked.

I pointed to the bottom of the page, then to an older, genuine document inside the safe.