“Even if the court has a scan, they need the original to verify the handwriting,” he said, his voice turning cold and calculated again. “Without the original, any decent lawyer can claim the digital file was manipulated.”

“Is that what your lawyer told you?” I asked.

“I know how the system works,” he said.

“Then you should know that Malcolm didn’t just scan it,” I said.

“What else did he do?” my father asked, his eyes narrowing.

“He had it certified by a forensic document examiner this afternoon,” I said. “The certification is already attached to the filing.”

My father’s jaw tightened.

He looked down at the note in his hand, his knuckles white.

He was trapped, and he knew it.

But he was still looking for a way out.

“We can still tie you up in court for years,” he said, stepping closer to me. “We have the resources. You have a failing trucking company and a warehouse full of angry drivers.”

“The drivers aren’t angry at me,” I said. “They are angry at you.”

“They want their money, Avery,” he said. “And you don’t have it.”