Fifteen years ago, my mother vanished during a land dispute, and everyone told me she died in the freezing waters of Mist Creek.
The next morning, the silence in Oakhaven Manor was unnerving. Clara avoided my gaze, the raw grief of her unwitting complicity etched on her face. Leo was quiet, picking at his breakfast. My mother was gone.
But my purpose was clear. The knot of fear in my stomach had tightened into a cold, hard resolve.
I skipped the office. Instead, I drove to downtown Saratoga, to the discreet, brass-plated office of Arthur Pendelton. The man who had presented the forged documents. The man Marcus had used.
I found his office door unlocked. The waiting room was empty, smelling faintly of stale coffee and desperation.
Pendelton sat at his desk, peering at a spreadsheet. He looked up, startled, as I walked in.
“Mr. Kincaid? I didn’t expect you,” he stammered, adjusting his glasses.
I didn’t reply. I walked past his desk, straight to the heavy oak door, and locked it from the inside. The click echoed loudly in the quiet office.
Pendelton’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic in them. “What are you doing?”
I moved back to his desk, placing the watermarked tax document squarely in front of him. Next to it, I slid a formal notice of legal deposition. It bore the letterhead of a prominent federal prosecutor I had cultivated a relationship with during a complex historical preservation case.
“The Oregon Paper Mill opened in 2019, Mr. Pendelton,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “These documents are dated fifteen years ago.”
His face paled. He stared at the watermark, then at the deposition notice. His breath hitched.
“You were the original notary, fifteen years ago,” I continued, pressing. “Marcus dug up your old gambling debts, didn’t he? Used them against you. Promised you three hundred twenty thousand dollars to forge Eleanor’s signature on newly antiqued paper, backdated to fifteen years ago.”
His hands began to tremble, rattling the papers on his desk. His gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.
“Federal prison, Mr. Pendelton,” I said, leaning closer, my voice barely a whisper. “Perjury, fraud. Thirty years, minimum. Unless you tell the truth.”
He visibly sagged, shoulders slumping. The color drained from his face, leaving it pasty and drawn.
“He… he had something on me,” Pendelton choked out, his voice hoarse. “Old casino markers. I couldn’t say no.”
He buried his face in his hands, shaking. “Three hundred twenty thousand. That was the price.”
I slid a pre-prepared sworn legal affidavit across the desk, a pen beside it. It detailed Marcus Pryor’s instructions, the payment, the forgery, the specific dates, and the paper mill anomaly.
“Sign it,” I commanded. “Under oath. Every word.”
He picked up the pen, his hand trembling so violently he could barely hold it steady. He signed the document, his signature a shaky scrawl. The ink bled slightly as his hand pressed too hard.
Arthur Pendelton had just condemned Marcus Pryor, and himself, under oath.
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