Chapter 12 - THE SIGNATURE BOOK
Margaret had photographs.
Not because she intended to expose Camille.
At least not originally.
She had photographed pages from a yellow legal pad because Camille frequently asked her to shred handwritten drafts.
Margaret kept records to protect herself.
One photograph showed page after page of Celeste’s signature.
Different angles.
Different pressure.
Different shapes.
Practice.
Raymond looked ill.
“You never told me.”
Camille’s head snapped toward him.
“Do not perform innocence now.”
Celeste stared at them both.
“So you forged my name.”
Camille responded as though discussing the weather.
“I protected you from decisions you weren’t equipped to make.”
Celeste laughed.
Then laughed again.
It sounded wrong.
Almost broken.
“You stole my signature to protect me?”
“You would have wasted your inheritance.”
“It was mine to waste.”
“No.”
Camille’s voice sharpened.
“That is the problem with your generation.”
“You believe possession and competence are the same thing.”
Celeste stared at her mother.
Then removed her wedding ring.
For one frightening second I thought she was blaming Thomas.
Instead, she placed the ring on Camille’s desk.
“What are you doing?”
Camille frowned.
Celeste looked at the ring.
“Do you remember this?”
“Obviously.”
“You chose it.”
Camille said nothing.
“You told Thomas what shape I wanted.”
“What stone.”
“What setting.”
“You planned the proposal restaurant.”
“You corrected the flowers.”
“You selected the photographer.”
“You even chose what dress I wore when he proposed.”
Camille rolled her eyes.
“Because Thomas needed help.”
“No.”
Celeste looked at her.
“Because you needed ownership.”
She put the ring back on.
“Not anymore.”
Camille’s face darkened.
“You are being ridiculous.”
Celeste smiled faintly.
“Probably.”
“It feels incredible.”
We left together.
Margaret came with us.
By morning, Evelyn had the letter, Margaret’s affidavit, the signature photographs, and authorization from Celeste to investigate the trust.
Raymond hired his own attorney by noon.
That told us everything.
He no longer trusted Camille enough to share one.
The forensic accounting accelerated.
The missing money had not vanished.
Most of it had purchased properties through shell companies.
Three condos.
A commercial building.
Two parcels of development land.
And one enormous house on the coast.
Whose name appeared on the beneficial ownership documents?
Camille Mercer.
Celeste stared at the list.
“She stole from us to buy herself houses.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“Possibly.”
“Stop saying possibly.”
“I will stop when we have court findings.”
Marcus pointed to another transaction.
“This one is different.”
Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Paid to Finch Behavioral Consulting.
“What is that?”
No one knew.
We searched corporate records.
The owner was Dr. Lionel Finch.
A psychologist.
My stomach tightened.
“Why would Camille pay a psychologist three quarters of a million dollars?”
Evelyn found the answer.
Dr. Finch specialized in high-conflict custody evaluations.
Nobody spoke.
Then Marcus found another payment.
Two hundred thousand.
Made six months later.
Another three hundred thousand the following year.
This was not a consultation.
It was a relationship.
We requested records through legal process.
Before we could receive them, Evelyn’s office got a call.
Dr. Finch wanted to speak voluntarily.
We met him that evening.
He was seventy-one.
Retired.
And visibly nervous.
“I made a mistake.”
Evelyn sat across from him.
“What mistake?”
“I accepted money from Camille Mercer.”
“For what?”
“Consulting.”
“Regarding whom?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
My chair suddenly felt too small.
“What did you do?”
“Mrs. Mercer wanted an assessment.”
“You never met me.”
“I know.”
“So what did you assess?”
“Risk factors.”
“From what?”
“Material she provided.”
Photographs.
Travel records.
Stories.
Fragments.
Exactly what Camille later placed into the custody petition.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
Three years.
She had started one year after Elena died.
Noelle had been five.
“What conclusion did you give her?”
Dr. Finch looked ashamed.
“That if certain documented behaviors existed, a court might question whether your lifestyle provided sufficient stability.”
“Documented behaviors?”
“Anger.”
“Impulsivity.”
“Extended absences.”
“Exposure to dangerous environments.”
“Substance misuse.”
I stared.
“I don’t use drugs.”
“I know that now.”
“I rarely drink.”
“I know.”
“You accepted money to design a profile of a person you never evaluated.”
His eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
Evelyn leaned forward.
“Why are you telling us?”
“Because I saw the wedding video.”
The room went silent.
Dr. Finch continued.
“I recognized something.”
“What?”
“The incident Mrs. Mercer had spent years predicting.”
Evelyn understood.
“She told you Adrian would eventually become violent in public.”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“She created the confrontation.”
“Yes.”
“And when he still didn’t behave the way she predicted, she filed anyway.”
Dr. Finch nodded.
Then he opened his case.
“There’s more.”
He removed an old audio recorder.
“Camille liked to record our sessions so she could review them.”
“Did you?”
“I kept backups.”
My heart began pounding.
“How many?”
“Thirty-seven.”
May you like
He pushed the recorder toward me.
“The first one is about Elena.”
