Chapter 5: The Notary's Refusal
Dana Holt answered on the first ring, like she'd been holding the phone.
"Mr.
Wentworth.
Thank you for calling."
"Tell me what happened," I said.
"Six weeks ago, a woman came to my office.
She said she was your mother, Margaret Wentworth.
She had the document and a copy of what she said was your signature on file." Dana's voice was precise, measured.
"She wanted me to certify that the signature was genuine."
"But you didn't."
"I didn't.
The signature didn't match the sample she provided closely enough.
There were pressure inconsistencies.
I've been doing this for nineteen years — I know what a copied signature looks like." A pause.
"I told her I couldn't certify it.
She asked me what it would take to change my mind."
I was quiet.
"She offered me money," Dana said.
"Eight thousand dollars, cash, to certify the document and not mention the visit."
"What did you say?"
"I told her to leave my office." Her voice stayed even.
"I should have reported it that day.
I've been asking myself why I didn't.
I think I was afraid of being wrong.
Afraid of accusing someone without being certain." Another pause.
"Then I saw the news this morning.
About the arrest.
And I realized I'd been sitting on something that mattered."
"Do you still have the document she brought in?"
"She took it with her when she left.
But I have my intake log from that day — her name, the time, the nature of the request, and a note I made immediately after she left describing the attempted bribe.
I made it a habit years ago.
Any irregular visit gets written down the same day."
"That note is evidence."
"I know.
That's why I'm calling." She hesitated.
"Mr.
Wentworth — is your wife all right?
The news said she was taken to the hospital."
"She's going to be okay.
The baby too."
A small exhale on her end.
"I'm glad."
I took down her address and told her I'd have my attorney contact her within the hour.
After I hung up, I stood in the corridor and thought about the shape of what Margaret had built — the forged signature, the attempted notarization, the suitcase, the safe.
Each piece had a date.
Each piece had a witness.
She had been careful.
And every careful step had left a mark.
I called my attorney, David Park, next.
"I need you at the hospital," I said.
"And I need you to contact the DA's office before noon."
"I saw the arrest report this morning." David's voice was already in work mode.
"Austin, this is going to be significant.
Aggravated @ssault on a pregnant woman, attempted robbery, forgery, attempted bribery of a notary — that's not a family dispute.
That's a criminal case."
"Good."
"Your mother's attorney has already called my office.
They want to discuss a resolution."
"There's nothing to discuss."
Silence on his end.
Then: "Okay.
I'll be there in forty minutes."
I went back into Irene's room.
She was awake, sitting up slightly, watching the door.
"Who did you call?" she asked.
"Richard.
And a notary named Dana Holt."
Her eyes sharpened.
"She came forward?"
"You knew about her?"
"I found a reference to a notary visit in a document Margaret left in the printer tray by mistake.
I didn't know her name.
I didn't know if she'd actually refused or gone along with it." Irene's hands settled on her stomach.
"I was afraid she'd gone along with it."
"She refused.
And she kept a log."
Irene closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, something in her face had shifted — not relief exactly, but the particular stillness of someone who has been holding a weight for a long time and has just been told they can set it down.
"It's enough?" she asked.
"It's more than enough."
She nodded slowly.
Then the door opened.
A nurse leaned in.
"Mr.
Wentworth?
There's a woman at the front desk.
She says she's your sister.
She's asking to come up."
Irene's hand found mine under the blanket.
"Carla was released?" I asked.
"I don't know, sir.
She doesn't look like she's been—" The nurse paused.
"She's been crying.
She asked me to tell you she's alone."
I looked at Irene.
"Your call," Irene said quietly.
I thought about Carla's face when the police took her out.
Not defiant, the way Margaret had been.
Something else.
May you like
Something younger.
"Tell her she has five minutes," I said.
