Part 3

The signature looked convincing at first glance. My name was written in the same narrow slant I used on holiday cards. But I had not signed the check, and the bank account had been opened while I was away on duty.

The banker explained that the account required two campaign officers to approve transfers above ten thousand dollars. The bank had processed the check after receiving a copy of a form naming me as a second officer. I had never seen that form either.

Daniel said he had added my name because the campaign needed someone with military experience. “I thought you would agree,” he said. “I intended to tell you.”

The treasurer, Mrs. Patel, leaned back in her chair. “You told me she had signed in person.”

He had no answer. Mrs. Bell asked the banker to place a hold on any further withdrawals while the account was reviewed. The banker said she could flag the account and refer the matter to the appropriate bank team; she could not promise that the transferred money would immediately return.

I asked Daniel whether Victor had prepared the form. He nodded. According to Daniel, Victor had handled most of the paperwork while Daniel raised donations and made speeches. Daniel said he had not watched the form being signed. He also admitted that he had seen my name on the check before sending it.

The distinction mattered to him. It did not make the choice harmless.

Maya was waiting outside the office with Lena. The two girls had planned to paint a sign for the resource room. When I came out, they stood up together.

“Is it canceled forever?” Lena asked.

“No decision has been made,” I said. “We're checking what happened to the money.”

Maya looked past me at her uncle. “Can we still help?”

Mrs. Bell answered before I could. “You can help us pack away the stars. We'll keep them safe until we know what happens next.”

That afternoon I called Victor using the number on the invoice. He answered from a car. When I asked about North Bridge Services, he said the company had bought the van and paid a contractor. He promised to bring receipts, then abruptly ended the call.

An hour later Daniel arrived at my house carrying a box of campaign files. He said Victor had emptied their shared office. The desk was gone, and the landlord had changed the locks because the rent was overdue.

In the box we found thank-you letters, photographs, and a stack of pledge cards. Underneath them was a sealed envelope addressed to me. The date was three months old. Daniel said he had meant to deliver it but had forgotten.

Inside was a letter from a woman named Rosa Kim. She had worked at the depot with Daniel years earlier. Her letter began: “I heard your brother is using the flood story again. You should know what happened to the people whose names he left out.”

I read the sentence twice, then checked the return address. Rosa had included a telephone number beneath her careful signature.