Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

was my name. But the strokes of the pen were thick, the cursive letters slanting heavily to the left with a flat cross on the letter t.

“That is Arthur’s handwriting,” I said, my voice flat.

“It is,” Frank said, nodding slowly. “They ran a comparison with three of his pension documents from the same era. He signed your name without continue reading …