I stared at him.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
He reached into his jacket.
Then placed a thick envelope on my kitchen table.
The first document bore my name.
COLLEEN WHITFIELD CALLAHAN.
Beneath it was an amount.
$1,240,000.
My fingers went cold.
“What is this?”
“A personal guaranty.”
“I never signed this.”
Grant met my eyes.
“I know.”
A signature sat at the bottom.
It looked remarkably like mine.
But it wasn’t.
Someone had forged it.
I heard my heartbeat.
“What the hell did they do?”
Grant lowered his voice.
“Nana left you part of the agency.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“She did.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-one percent.”
I laughed because sometimes your body chooses the wrong reaction when reality becomes too absurd.
“That’s impossible.”
“She changed the trust after Dad threw you out.”
The room went still.
According to Grant, Nana Ruth had controlled most of the original Whitfield Agency stock because she and my grandfather founded the business.
Before dying, she transferred controlling interest into a trust.
For me.
Dad had hidden it.
Years earlier, papers were filed claiming I had voluntarily transferred those shares back to him.
The signature was forged.
The recent loan was partly built on that lie.
