Chapter 4Your Debt Your Grave Now

The man put his boot on Beatrice’s back, tapping his bat against the floor.

"Enough with the soap opera," he growled. "Thirty thousand, principal and interest. Or I pack you both into a van and ship you to a basement in Tijuana to work off the balance."

Melanie was hyperventilating in the corner. Suddenly, she remembered the paper. She fumbled in her pocket and held it up like a holy shield.

"Wait! Look at this! It’s a signed confession! My sister admitted it! It’s all hers!"

The man took the paper, squinted at it, and then looked at me.

Beatrice, pinned to the floor, found her second wind. "Nancy! You monster! Give them the money! Do you want us all to die?"

I actually laughed. "That’s a forgery."

I pointed to the signature. "Look at the strokes. That was written with a left hand by a right-handed person. It’s a mirror-image signature. Legally, it’s a 'distressed signature,' usually used to indicate a document signed under duress. It’s worthless in any court—and it’s worthless here."

Melanie’s eyes went wide. She let out a guttural scream and tried to lung at me, her fingers hooked like claws. The man caught her with a kick to the ribs before she could get close.

"I’m bored," he said, pulling a different tablet from his vest. He opened the lender's internal file. "I don't need a piece of paper. The platform requires a high-res photo of the borrower holding their ID. Let’s see who’s in the picture."

He tapped the screen. The blue light illuminated the dim room. Beatrice struggled up, hopeful, thinking this would finally prove her favorite daughter’s innocence.

"Yes! Look at the photo! It’ll be Nancy!"

But as her eyes fell on the screen, the air left her lungs.