MY MOTHER-IN-LAW BEAT ME WITH A METAL BROOM HANDLE WHILE MY HUSBAND JUST WATCHED—THEN I POINTED TO THE CAMERA ABOVE THE KITCHEN DOOR, AND HE DROPPED TO HIS KNEES BEGGING ME NOT TO CALL THE POLICE.

Imani enlarged the seventh certificate on our conference-room monitor. My signature looked almost perfect. The spacing, the flourished J, even the tiny dot near the border were identical to the older reports.

"It's an image," she said. "Somebody copied your seal and signature and pasted them onto a new document. They don't need your login anymore."

It was so simple I felt sick. I had imagined a clever intruder breaking a secure system. Ryan only needed an old PDF and somebody willing to lie.

Sofia arranged for a forensic document specialist to compare files and trace their origins. We supplied the original legitimate certificates used in the forgery, along with written proof of where I had been when the false reports were issued.

"The board is still investigating," Imani warned. "We can't rush it."

"I know."

I hated those two words. I knew about patience. I knew about process. What I wanted was for Becca to sleep in her own house and for Teresa's daughter to stop clutching a rain boot every time somebody said the word 'home.'

A local reporter called asking whether Harbor Structural had approved dangerous repairs. I declined an interview while the investigation was active but gave him the county's public contact and a statement prepared with Sofia: my seal had been used without authorization, I had reported it, and resident safety came first.

That afternoon, police searched a rented storage unit connected to Ryan's company under a warrant. They recovered files, checks, unused materials, and a computer containing copies of my digital signature. The investigation finally had a path that didn't depend on my word alone.

At six, Imani called from the office.

"Tom's gone," she said. "He left his keys and a note saying he was sorry."

"Did he say where?"