“Is there a problem with the probate release?” I asked.
He turned the monitor slightly toward me, pointing a manicured finger at a scanned document on the screen. It was an authorization form to release my eighty-five-thousand-dollar inheritance.
My name was written at the bottom in dark blue ink, the cursive letters slanting slightly to the right. It looked exactly like my signature, except for the tiny loop on the final letter.
“Ben brought this to the drive-up window yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Vance said. “He told the teller you were too weak to come in.”
I stared at the screen, my hand instinctively reaching for my silver band. “I never saw this paper.”
“We flagged it because the signature card on your account is thirty years old,” Mr. Vance said. “The pressure of the pen was too consistent, like a tracing.”
“Where did he get my signature?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Mr. Vance pulled a small manila folder from his desk drawer. “He used a copy of your father’s old estate settlement, which you signed in Gary’s office last year.”
The room seemed to grow very quiet, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner in the wall. Ben had gone through my desk drawers while I was at the grocery store.
“We need to lock this account down immediately,” Mr. Vance said, his fingers already hovering over his keyboard.
“Yes,” I said. “Please lock it.”
“I will place a fraud hold on all joint assets,” he said.
The hospital administration lobby was located on the basement level, far from the quiet white rooms of the oncology ward. The smell of institutional floor wax was stronger down here.
A silver-plated water pitcher sat on the counter of the reception desk, sweating condensation onto a stack of brochures.
Nurse Evelyn was waiting near the vending machines, her blue scrubs standing out against the beige walls. She constantly adjusted her plastic ID badge, her fingers clicking the clip against her pocket.
“I only have five minutes,” Evelyn said, speaking in short, clipped, professional sentences. “My shift starts at three.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
She looked around the lobby, her eyes lingering on the security guard near the double doors. “I spoke to the internal investigator this morning.”
“Did they look at Ben’s charts?” I asked.
“They are auditing the server logs,” Evelyn said. “Dr. Paulson is the only one who can authorize changes to the chemotherapy schedule.”
“But Ben is still in Room 312,” I said. “They haven’t discharged him.”
“They won’t,” Evelyn said. “Not until the medical board finishes the preliminary review.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, folding it tightly before handing it to me. “This is the name of the investigator.”
“What will happen to you?” I asked.
Evelyn adjusted her badge again, her jaw tight. “I did my job, Clara. The rest is up to them.”
She turned and walked toward the staff elevators, leaving me alone with the smell of floor wax.
By six o’clock, the professional park was nearly dark. The office of Gary and Associates was the only suite with the lights still burning.
