Chapter 13: Digging Deeper

The floral flourish on the lease amendment form burned in my mind, an indelible mark of Chloe’s deception. As soon as we left Elite Properties, my mind raced, trying to piece together how I could prove what I had seen. Carlos remained subdued, convinced by Ms. Albright’s carefully constructed narrative of our family’s disorganization. He wanted to discuss how we could “resubmit everything correctly this time,” but I barely heard him.

My thoughts were consumed by Chloe’s old art sketchbooks. I remembered them clearly, filled with charcoal drawings, watercolor landscapes, and, yes, those same floral doodles in the margins. It was a nervous habit, a subconscious act she’d done since we were kids. This wasn’t just a random scribble. It was her signature, her unwitting confession.

We arrived back at the panadería, the familiar scent of sugar and yeast doing little to calm my racing heart. Abuela Elena was still resting, but I knew I couldn’t approach her or Carlos with this raw suspicion. They needed concrete evidence, something undeniable, to break through the gaslighting.

I excused myself, claiming a headache, and retreated to my room. My phone became my new weapon. I started by searching for Chloe’s social media, looking for old photos, anything that might show her sketchbooks or her distinctive doodle. It felt invasive, violating, but the image of Abuela’s pale face, the memory of her high blood pressure, pushed aside any lingering guilt. This was for her.

I scrolled through years of posts: vacation photos, school events, selfies with friends. Nothing. Chloe was always careful about her image, curating every detail. But then I remembered something. She used to rave about a specific local art supply store, “Artisan Alley,” a small, independent shop downtown that carried specialized paper and imported pigments. She loved their charcoal pencils.

A desperate hunch, a glimmer of an idea, sparked in my mind. If Chloe had been practicing signatures, if she had been forging documents, she might have done it on specific paper. Paper she bought from Artisan Alley.

I typed “Artisan Alley” into my search bar, then added “Chloe Davis.” Nothing direct, of course. But the store had an active Instagram account, showcasing customer artwork and new arrivals. I started scrolling through their posts, looking for anything, any small detail that might connect Chloe to the shop. It was a long shot, a needle in a haystack. But I had to try.

Hours passed. My eyes ached, my fingers felt stiff from scrolling. Then, on a post from about a month ago, featuring a new line of tracing paper, a comment caught my eye. It was from Chloe’s lesser-known private account, one she rarely used, buried deep in the comments section.

`”Love this tracing paper! Perfect for my latest project ;)”`

The comment itself was innocuous, but the timing sent a shiver down my spine. A month ago. That was precisely when the “lease amendment form” with the forged signature was dated. Tracing paper. It clicked. She hadn’t just drawn the doodle; she had likely traced Abuela’s signature. It was a petty cruelty, the casual gloating about her “project” online while actively working to destroy our family’s dream.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn’t definitive proof, not yet, but it was a powerful clue, a breadcrumb leading directly to Chloe. It confirmed my intuition that she wasn’t merely disorganized, but was actively engaging in deceptive practices. She was not just sabotaging us; she was meticulously crafting her betrayal.

The thought of her practicing Abuela’s signature, painstakingly trying to mimic her hand, filled me with a fresh wave of disgust. It was a cold, calculated act, an intimate violation of trust. I had to find that tracing paper. I had to find her sketchbook. It was the only way to get the irrefutable evidence I needed to expose her. My investigation was no longer about theory; it was about specific, physical evidence. And I knew exactly where I needed to look next. Chloe’s house.