Marcus produced a third document.
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“This is a forensic analysis report from Forensic Document Services, a certified firm specializing in handwriting analysis.
They examined the signature on the Cape Cod sale documents against authentic samples of Mrs. Harrison’s handwriting.”
He turned to the room, his voice carrying the weight of courtroom authority.
“Their conclusion: the signature is inconsistent with Mrs. Harrison’s authentic hand. Probability of forgery, 98.7%.”
Murmurs erupted through the ballroom. I saw Tyler’s father, the managing partner at Ropes & Gray, exchange a significant look with another attorney near the bar.
“You’re lying.” Victoria’s voice cracked. “This is all fabricated. You’re senile, Mother. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sharp enough to hire experts,” Eleanor replied. “I’m sharp enough to preserve evidence. And I’m sharp enough to have forwarded this entire file to the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office last week.”
The color drained completely from Victoria’s face.
“You—you didn’t—”
“Forgery and fraud, Victoria. Up to five years in prison under Massachusetts law.”
Eleanor’s voice was almost gentle now, the same tone she’d once used to explain complex legal concepts to first-year students.
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“I didn’t want to believe my own daughter could do this. I gave you three years to confess, to make it right.
But instead, you spent those years slandering my granddaughter, calling her a manipulator, calling me senile, trying to steal her inheritance the same way you stole my property.”
Victoria spun to face Richard.
“Richard, say something. Stop this.”
Richard Harrison, who had stood silently through everything, took a step backward.
“I didn’t know,” he said. His voice was flat, empty. “I didn’t know about the Cape Cod house.”
