“Our crews brought them out,” I answered.
“A lot of people made that possible.”
Ortega nodded.
“And she led the flight that got the job done.”
Grant pushed away from the table.
“So what? She had a successful mission.
Congratulations.
Do we need to turn this into a parade?”
I looked directly at him.
“You put your name under my crew’s photograph.”
“I was trying to build something that helps veterans!”
“Then why did you need to pretend you were someone else?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it.
I reached for the brochure.
The photograph showed our helicopter just above the flooded landing area, the rescue hoist visible against the gray sky.
For years, that image had reminded me of teamwork, exhaustion, and the relief of knowing everyone had survived.
Seeing it used to sell a false story felt like someone had taken a private memory and turned it into advertising.
“Remove the photograph,” I told Grant.
“Remove my name from the website.
Correct the claims you’ve made to your prospective sponsors.”
His face hardened.
“You’d wreck my company just to prove you’re better than me?”
“This isn’t a competition.”
“Everything is a competition with you!”
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
I had spent my childhood trying to avoid competing with him.
He was the one who couldn’t bear that I had a life he couldn’t diminish.
Then my father reached for the leather folder beside his chair.
“Nora, there’s something you should see.”
He pushed several documents toward me.
They described proposed financing for Northstar Veterans Training.
The requested amount was two hundred ninety thousand dollars.
Mercer Machine and Welding’s property was listed as proposed collateral.
And near the back, I found my name.
Not in a biographical paragraph.
Not on an advisory roster.
On a proposed personal guaranty.
The signature beneath my printed name was disturbingly familiar.
It was mine, or an imitation so convincing that I immediately recognized the shape of every letter.
Except I had never seen this paper before.
I looked up.
“Who signed this?”
Grant stared at the parking lot.
Elise whispered his name.
I asked again.
“Grant.
Who signed my name?”
He reached for the packet.
I moved it out of his reach.
“Don’t touch it.”
My voice wasn’t loud.
But every person at that table heard me.
For several seconds, Grant appeared to be calculating whether anger might still save him.
Then he said, “It’s not even a final document.”
I felt a terrible certainty settle over me.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looked at Dad.
“You said she’d support us.”
My father blinked.
“I said I hoped she would.”
“You told me she wouldn’t let the family fail.”
I interrupted.
“Answer the question.”
Grant’s shoulders slumped.
“I used an old signature.
From paperwork you sent Mom years ago.”
Elise stood so abruptly that her chair bumped the railing.
“You told me Nora agreed to this.”
Grant turned toward her.
“I was going to tell her.”
“When?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
I studied the date on the document.
Six weeks earlier.
For six weeks, my brother had apparently allowed a financing application to circulate with my forged signature while treating me like a joke in front of our parents.
The realization made my hands cold.
“Have these documents
