“I, Rosa Gomez, admit to taking money from the trust accounts of Daniela and Martina Duarte,” my father read aloud, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“I did this over a period of three years, using my access to the household accounts.”

I stared at the paper in disbelief.

“That is a lie,” I said, my voice rising. “Rosa would never touch our money.”

“Quiet, Daniela,” my father said, though his eyes were wide with anger.

Ramiro leaned closer to the light.

“Look at the signature, sir,” the security chief said.

My father pulled a magnifying glass from the desk drawer.

He held it over the bottom of the page.

The ink on the signature was slightly different from the rest of the text.

“It is a trace,” my father said.

His voice was dangerously calm now.

“Rosa signs the household grocery receipts every Tuesday,” I pointed out. “The binders are kept in the kitchen pantry.”

“She copied it,” my father said.

He tapped his finger against the desk.

“Patricia wanted me to find this,” he said. “She was going to point me toward the blue binder when she felt the time was right.”