My father’s name was signed at the bottom of the page in blue ink.

The stroke of the ‘C’ in Calder was slightly curved at the top.

I opened the logbook to a page containing my father’s actual signature.

The two did not match.

The signature on the authorization form was a careful, practiced imitation.

“Dorian forged his name,” I said, my voice flat.

“He did,” Voss said quietly. “And he did it while your father was still alive and hospitalized.”

I turned the pages of the journal, my eyes tracking the numbers.

My father had documented the discrepancies himself.

He had written notes in the margins, recording missing funds from the primary trust accounts.

*October 14th,* one entry read. *Another fifty thousand moved to an offshore account. No authorization found. Dorian claims it was a clerical error. The bank refuses to investigate without a formal audit.*

“He knew,” I said. “My father knew what Dorian was doing.”

“He was trying to build a case,” Voss said. “But his health failed before he could present this to a grand jury.”

I picked up another document from the folder.