Chapter 101 - The Final Signature
I sliced through the heavy twine with Arthur’s pocketknife and peeled back the stiff, waxed layers of oilcloth.
Inside was not just the black ledger of 1988. Beneath the ledger sat a stack of recent correspondence, legal affidavits, and bank transfers stamped with dates from barely six months ago.
My breath caught in my throat. I picked up the top document. It was a transfer of deed for the New Hampshire farmhouse, signed not by Caleb, and not by me—but signed with a power of attorney granted to an offshore corporation registered in Belize.
And at the bottom of the sheet, beside the corporate seal, was a signature I knew better than my own name.
It was Arthur’s handwriting. Crisp, slanting to the right, precisely as he had signed every birthday card, every mortgage payment, and every check for forty-four years.
"Arthur died in my arms in Concord Hospital," I whispered, the paper shaking between my fingers. "The doctors called the time. I buried him beside his parents."
Alistair slowly lifted his head from the table. His expression was no longer one of fear or exhaustion. A strange, sorrowful stillness settled over his weathered features.
From the corner of the dark cabin, the satellite phone in my hand suddenly buzzed, vibrating violently against the wood.
The screen did not display a blocked number, nor did it show the area code for Concord or Boston.
The incoming caller ID flashed a single name from a private line routed through Zurich:
May you like
*Arthur Vance-Pendleton.*
I stared at the screen, my finger frozen above the green button, while the wind outside tore at the roof shingles and the lantern flame flickered in the sudden draft.
