I wiped my palms on my apron and picked up the folder. Marcus leaned on the display case like he owned it already, smirking at the line of regulars who had gone dead silent. “It’s a transfer of ownership,” he announced. “Signed by David six weeks before he passed. Court-stamped. You’ve got until Friday to clear out, Hannah.” I flipped through the pages slowly. David’s signature was there — looped J, sharp D, the little dot he always put after his last name. Almost perfect. Almost. I closed the folder and finally looked up. “Marcus. David lost the use of his right hand in February. The stroke. He signed everything with his left for the last four months of his life — including his will, his medical directives, and the deed to this building.” The smirk cracked. “That’s… that’s not—” “It’s documented,” I said. “By his neurologist. By the notary who came to the hospice. By the lawyer sitting at table six.” Every head turned. Our family attorney, Priya, lifted her coffee cup in a small, polite salute. “Hi, Marcus,” she said. “I was actually going to call you today. The handwriting analyst already flagged this document last week — your sister-in-law forwarded me a copy the moment you emailed it to her. Forgery of a deceased person’s signature is a felony in this state. Detective Alvarez is parked out front. He asked me to wait until you delivered it in person.” Marcus’s face went the color of raw dough. The bell above the door jingled. A calm voice behind him said, “Mr. Whitaker? Step outside with me, please.” I didn’t watch him go. I picked up David’s old wooden rolling pin, the one with his initials burned into the handle, and turned back to my customers. “Sorry about that, everyone,” I said softly. “Cinnamon rolls are on the house today. My husband would’ve insisted.” The line broke into applause. And for the first time in eleven months, I smiled without it hurting.
