The signature initials had been consistent with Martha’s known handwriting, but she could not authenticate authorship from a scan alone.
A document specialist would need the physical original and adequate comparison material.
The thought of Martha having signed a death instruction made me sick.
I kept reminding myself that her fear and guilt did not tell us exactly what she had done.
Joanna turned next to the red-circled witness signature on my adoption decree.
She observed that the pen strokes were unusually uniform across multiple pages.
It might have been a legitimate rubber stamp used for administrative processing.
It might also indicate that forms were copied and completed outside the witness’s presence.
She refused to choose between those explanations without evidence.
Then she noticed the lower edge of the transfer receipt.
A narrow strip had been cut away, leaving part of a printed filing code.
The remaining letters read HB-4.
Joanna asked whether we had found any similar forms in the agency’s surviving file index.
Dana searched the repository’s public catalog and found Harbor Bridge, Series Four, under restricted access.
The title referred to transportation and temporary placements rather than ordinary adoption papers.
For the first time, the name Harbor Bridge appeared in an official finding aid rather than a business advertisement.
Joanna said it was an important lead, not a conclusion.
I drove home with the calendar folded on the passenger seat.
Leah watched me hang it on the study wall and asked why most of the squares were still gray.
“Because we don’t know enough,” I answered.
She reached for the blue marker and circled the date of my birth.
“We know this,” she said.
I told her we knew the date recorded on my documents, but that confirmation from independent records was still pending.
She laughed at my caution.
“You’re becoming a lawyer.”
“I’m becoming someone who asks for receipts,” I replied.
The joke made us both smile, but I kept looking at the missing strip on the paper.
Somebody had removed a filing number without destroying the rest of the receipt.
That small deliberate cut was harder to dismiss than a dozen rumors.
I thought about returning to Briar Glen and knocking on Lionel Cross’s door.
Dana advised against it until his lawyer responded to the latest request for records.
She had learned that he was recovering from surgery and that an unannounced visitor would likely frighten rather than inform him.
I listened reluctantly because patience was beginning to feel like a luxury the people who had deceived us could afford.
