My signature was at the bottom.
Christopher’s expression tightened.
“That doesn’t mean he forged anything,” he said. “But stop assuming he couldn’t.”
It was exactly the kind of sentence I needed.
Not panic.
Not reassurance.
A boundary between what we knew and what we feared.
Gregory called again.
I let it ring.
Then another message arrived.
You’re embarrassing yourself. That agreement is nothing unless you sign it.
Christopher pointed at the sentence.
“There.”
“What?”
“He just confirmed the agreement is real.”
Until then, part of me had still been reaching for an innocent explanation.
Maybe the papers belonged to someone else.
Maybe Gregory had put them beside my documents simply to frighten me.
Maybe I had misunderstood the photograph.
But Gregory had now identified the contract himself.
He knew what it was.
He knew it required my signature.
And he wanted me home alone.
I typed one sentence.
