Chapter 9 - A SIGNATURE FROM A DAY I WAS BURIED
The October service report carried my initials, my technician number, and a signature that resembled mine closely enough to fool anyone who did not know me.
It listed a visit on October 14 at 2:35 p.m.
I remembered that day without checking a calendar.
"I was at my father's graveside service," I said.
Nobody spoke.
"He died the week before. I took bereavement leave."
Nora turned the page.
There was a time entry approved by Curtis.
It showed me working for six hours.
I felt something colder than anger.
Someone had put my name on a report about a serious industrial accident while I was standing beside my father's grave.
Daniel lowered his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Find out who did it."
Maya requested my bereavement records and obtained the funeral home's dated documentation.
The accountant matched a vehicle tracking entry to the supposed repair.
The truck had never entered Beaver County.
Yet an expense reimbursement for emergency parts had been paid that afternoon.
The listed supplier was the same trailer company from the other questionable invoices.
"This is a pattern of falsification," Maya said carefully.
"It may support criminal investigation, but we'll let investigators reach their own conclusions."
For the first time I understood why Daniel had been reluctant to promise a dramatic confrontation.
Real consequences required records that could survive scrutiny.
Curtis, meanwhile, escalated.
He sent a letter alleging that I had accessed proprietary files after my suspension.
He demanded return of "stolen" documents and threatened civil action.
Maya replied on my behalf, identifying the materials I had lawfully retained and directing him not to contact me.
Two nights later someone slashed the tires on my pickup.
The apartment parking camera recorded a hooded figure, but the face was hidden.
My insurance deductible was more than I could spare.
I stood beside the flattened tires while a neighbor held a flashlight.
"You got somebody angry," he said.
"Apparently."
The neighbor pointed toward the street.
"A gray van was parked out there yesterday. No plates on the front."
I wrote down everything he remembered.
When I returned upstairs, my phone showed a missed call from a number at North Ridge.
A voicemail had been left.
I played it.
A man's voice whispered, "The accident in Beaver County wasn't an accident."
Then the message ended with a sharp metallic clang and a frightened breath.
I recognized the voice.
May you like
It belonged to the worker who had been hospitalized.
