Copies landed on our table with a thick slap.
My attorney, Evelyn Kensington, did not touch them immediately.
She was sixty-two, silver-haired, elegant, and terrifying in the way only a woman who had spent forty years destroying arrogant men in court could be terrifying.
She nudged the stack toward me.
“Look closely,” she murmured.
I did.
The first page was a fake bank statement.
My name.
My address.
My old checking account number.
My stomach tightened.
Not because the document was convincing.
Because the account number was real.
I had opened that checking account years earlier for utilities. It had been dormant for over a year.
The second page showed a default notice.
The third showed a margin call.
The fourth showed a corporate lending classification that no normal person in that courtroom would notice.
But I noticed.
And so did Evelyn.
I leaned close. “He stole my mail.”
Her eyes did not move from the paper. “When?”
