Kenneth used the moment.
“Mr. Fleming,” he said, “you need counsel. Anything you say may become relevant in the civil proceedings, and possibly more.”
“Possibly more?” Connor snapped. “What does that mean?”
“It means forged medical consent forms are not a misunderstanding.”
The word forged landed between us.
Forged.
I looked again at the signature copies.
There was my name, looped and confident.
Almost right.
Not quite.
Someone had copied my signature from somewhere. An old bank form, maybe. A tax return. A consent document from another procedure.
Almost right.
Not quite.
The difference made me shiver.
I had signed so many forms during those years. I had trusted the systems around me. Trusted the clinics. Trusted my husband.
Trust, I was learning, leaves a paper trail when it dies.
