Chapter 9
Daniel turned his laptop toward us.
The meeting room had gone quiet enough that I could hear the birthday celebration through the wall: a burst of applause, then the muffled rise of Sherry’s voice. She was still out there, standing before seventy-two guests and taking credit for bringing us all together.
On Daniel’s screen, the event record showed a time and a sender account.
“The authorization arrived at 5:47 p.m.,” he said. “It came through the email address registered to Mrs. Lamb.”
Sherry’s fingers tightened around the edge of her folder.
“That doesn’t prove I sent it,” she said.
“No,” Daniel replied. “It establishes the account recorded as the sender. It doesn’t tell us who was at the keyboard, who created the document, or who signed it.”
I appreciated that he kept separating what the records showed from what we wanted them to show. I wanted an answer. But wanting one didn’t make the evidence any clearer.
“Can you show us the original file?” I asked. “Not just the printed page.”
“I can show you the preserved copy and the activity available in the event system. I can’t claim the system retained every detail about how it was made.”
He opened the scanned authorization. My name sat near the bottom of the page, written in a hurried, slanted hand. It still looked wrong to me. I leaned closer.
Daniel opened the scan from my original reservation packet beside it.
The two signatures appeared on the screen, one next to the other.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
The genuine signature had been written months earlier, when I booked the small dinner and signed my name beneath the written-approval clause. The disputed one was shorter and less certain. But at the beginning of both, the capital B had the same small, curling stroke—an odd little flourish I had never tried to make deliberately. It was simply how my hand moved.
“That curl,” I said.
Daniel leaned in.
“What about it?”
“It’s the same.”
I pointed to the genuine signature, then the disputed one. The little curve rose at almost the same angle before turning back. I felt the chill of recognition without the comfort of certainty.
Sherry shifted in her chair.
“People’s signatures resemble one another,” she said.
“Sometimes,” I replied. “But this one resembles mine in exactly the place that’s usually imperfect.”
Toby’s eyes stayed on the screen. He didn’t speak.
Daniel enlarged both images. The pixels made the lines jagged, but the matching curve was still visible.
“I can document that you identified the resemblance,” he said. “I can’t determine from this screen whether the signature was copied, traced, or written by someone who happens to have a similar hand. That would require a more formal review.”
“I understand.”
I did understand. A resemblance could be a clue, not a verdict. Still, seeing that curl beside my name made my stomach tighten.
Sherry pushed her chair back a fraction.
“I did not copy her signature.”
“You told us you believed I approved the changes,” I said. “Now we’re looking at a signature I say I didn’t make, on a document your account sent to the venue.”
“I never said I prepared the authorization.”
“Then who did?”
Her gaze flicked toward the closed door. Beyond it, another round of applause broke out.
“I had an assistant helping with the event,” she said. “She handled some of the paperwork and the upload.”
Paige looked up.
“You never told me there was an assistant.”
Sherry’s face tightened.
“You weren’t involved in every detail.”
“You asked me to help with the seating chart,” Paige said. “You never mentioned anyone handling the paperwork.”
“That doesn’t mean I had to explain every conversation I had.”
Daniel remained still, his expression professional.
“Who was this assistant?”
Sherry opened her folder, though she didn’t seem to be looking for anything in it.
“She helped me with the final arrangements. I can’t remember exactly what she called herself.”
“You don’t remember the name of someone who prepared a financial authorization for twenty-seven thousand dollars?” I asked.
“I’m saying she took care of the administrative details. I didn’t sit there watching her do every task.”
“That isn’t the same as answering the question,” Daniel said.
He turned his laptop back toward himself and clicked through the retained event record. The email entry, the uploaded document, the earlier message chain, the activity note: he checked them one by one, as if giving Sherry every chance to point to something specific.
“I don’t see an assistant listed in the event record,” he said. “I also don’t see an assistant’s account, name, or email address attached to the authorization package we retained. That doesn’t prove no one helped you. It means I can’t verify that claim from these records.”
Sherry’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“You weren’t supposed to be investigating me.”
“I’m reviewing a disputed financial authorization,” Daniel said. “That’s my responsibility as the venue’s manager.”
“And the bill?” I asked.
“I’m pausing the billing process until we finish documenting the dispute. Nothing further will be charged to your card while the authorization is under review. The original agreement and your written instruction remain in the file.”
“I haven’t agreed to any of those upgrades,” I said.
“I’ve recorded that, Mrs. Huitt.”
He turned to the computer again, typing a note. The faint clacking of the keys filled the room. I wondered how many times I had mistaken silence for peace—how often I had held my tongue because speaking might upset someone else.
Not tonight.
Daniel finished typing and looked back at Sherry.
“For the record, please identify the person you say prepared or uploaded this document.”
Sherry’s eyes moved from Daniel to me, then briefly to Toby. Her confidence had thinned, but she still held her chin high.
“It was Martin Cole,” she said. “He helped me with the paperwork.”
Daniel stopped typing.
He looked at her more carefully.
“Martin Cole?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
May you like
Daniel glanced at the event record, then toward the door.
“Mrs. Lamb,” he said slowly, “Martin Cole is listed as your guest tonight. He has never worked for Larks Hall.”
