Part 2: I sat there in the driver’s seat, the phone cold in my hand, the message from my old contact burning through the exhaustion. The name on the screen was Marcus Webb, a forensic accountant I’d worked with on a counterintel task force back in 2011. We hadn’t spoken in years. He’d left the service, gone private, but he still had friends in the county recorder’s office. And somehow, he’d found my number.Uniforms & Workwear
The message read: “I found something in the deed records. You need to see this before they finish scrubbing it.”
I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. The for-sale sign on the lawn glowed under a streetlamp like a taunt. I pulled my jacket tighter, turned the ignition, and drove to a 24-hour diner on the edge of Fairfax. Fluorescent lights, the smell of old grease, a waitress who looked at my uniform and didn’t ask questions. I nursed a black coffee until my hands steadied, then called Marcus.Security Products & Services
— You’re up early, he said by way of greeting.
— I haven’t been to bed. What did you find?
— A property transfer recorded three months ago. The house on Sycamore Lane? Moved from the Hail Family Trust to a company called Raven Holdings LLC. The seller’s signature on file is yours, Ara.
My stomach dropped.
— I never signed anything.
— I know. I pulled the digital image. The signature’s close, but the slant is off. I ran it through a comparison tool we used in the old days. It’s a forgery. Someone scanned your signature from another document and pasted it.Family
The coffee turned to acid in my throat. I signaled the waitress for a refill, my mind racing.
