Chapter 1 - The Signature That Wasn't MineThe ink on the intake form stared back at me. It was my signature. The sharp slant of the G, the hurried loop of the R—it was an exact replica of my handwriting. Except I had never seen this document before in my life.
"Graham, baby, listen to me," Sloane’s voice trembled, perfectly calibrated to sound like a terrified, misunderstood bride. She dropped to her knees beside Maisie, her designer wedding gown pooling on the dusty foyer floor. "She was screaming, she was hysterical. She threatened to ruin the wedding, Graham! The residential center... they specialize in severe behavioral issues. I only signed you up for a consultation, and—and someone must have forged your signature to lock in the paperwork today. They are predatory, Graham! They prey on stressed families!"
I looked from Sloane to the two suitcases. Inside the open lid of the second one, right beside Maisie’s worn stuffed rabbit, sat the framed photo of Elena—my late wife. Her gentle eyes smiled out from the glass, as if trapped in a nightmare.
"A consultation?" My voice was dangerously low, stripped of all warmth. "Sloane, her medications are in here. Her winter clothes are in here. You don't pack a child’s entire life into a suitcase for a consultation."
Maisie clutched the hem of my trousers, her little body shaking. "Daddy, don't let her take me. She said I was a bad seed. She said a real family doesn't have ghosts."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. Ghosts. Elena had only been gone two years, and Sloane had spent the last twelve months systematically erasing her memory from our home, claiming it was "for Maisie’s healing."
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"Get up, Sloane," I said, my voice dead.
She froze, her tears halting for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to see the raw, calculating panic flash behind her mascara-stained eyes.
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