Chương 11
I stood.
He set the duffel down.
“The money is still in my personal account.”
“Then put it back.”
His face tightened.
“I can.”
“Now.”
“Sloan, my lawyer said not to move funds until he understands—”
“Then call him.”
Julian looked at Camille.
She held up both hands.
“Do not involve me.”
He picked up his phone.
While he called, my pulse pounded so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
Everything we had discussed that morning vanished beneath one simple fact.
Even after the tea hit me.
Even after I walked out.
Even after I asked about the missing forty thousand.
He had still moved more money.
Eleanor stepped closer.
I moved away from her without thinking.
She stopped.
Julian ended the call.
“He says I can return it because it originated from the joint account and hasn’t been pledged.”
“Do it.”
He opened the banking app.
His thumb moved across the screen.
Then he turned the phone toward me.
Transfer complete.
Twenty-three thousand dollars.
I looked at the confirmation.
Relief did not come.
Instead, I felt tired.
More tired than I had ever felt in our marriage.
Julian put the phone away.
“Sloan.”
I shook my head.
“Go.”
He picked up the duffel.
For once, he did not argue.
Camille opened the front door.
Julian stepped outside, then turned back.
“I am sorry about yesterday.”
I looked at him.
He swallowed.
“And today.”
I said nothing.
He nodded as though silence was an answer he deserved.
Then he left.
Camille lingered in the doorway.
“I’ll keep him from doing anything stupid.”
I almost told her that was not her job.
Then I looked at the woman who had spent years fighting with her brother because nobody else would tell him no.
“Keep yourself out of the wreckage too.”
Her expression softened.
“I’ll try.”
The door closed behind her.
Eleanor gathered her handbag.
“I think I should go now.”
I nodded.
She reached the foyer before stopping.
“Sloan?”
I looked over.
“If you decide not to forgive him, that does not make you cruel.”
My chest tightened.
She opened the door before I could answer.
The house became quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet.
I stood in the kitchen until the refrigerator motor clicked on.
Then I sat on the floor beside the island and cried harder than I had in the car the day before.
I cried because Julian had lied.
I cried because someone might have scammed him.
I cried because Eleanor had apologized too late and somehow not too late at all.
I cried because twenty-three thousand dollars had returned to an account and it changed almost nothing.
When I finally stopped, my face hurt.
I washed it at the sink.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
For one terrible second, I expected Julian.
It was Darcy.
Call me.
I called.
She answered immediately.
“I need you to check your email.”
“What happened?”
“I just received something from Julian’s attorney.”
My stomach tightened again.
“What?”
“A copy of the Ridgeway guarantee package.”
I opened my laptop.
Darcy waited while I found the message.
There were seven attachments.
“Open the fifth PDF.”
I clicked it.
A signature page appeared.
Julian’s name was there.
Below his was another signature line.
My name.
And on that line, in a handwriting that looked enough like mine to fool someone who did not know me well, was a signature I had never written.
For several seconds, I stared at the signature without understanding what I was seeing.
Then I leaned closer to the screen.
The shape of the S was wrong.
Mine began narrow and widened through the middle because I had learned cursive from a teacher who believed every capital letter should look mildly theatrical.
This one was too round.
The final r in Mercer also curled upward in a way mine never did.
Darcy said my name through the phone.
“I’m here.”
“Did you sign that?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
I heard her exhale.
“Do not forward the document to anyone except counsel.”
“Julian sent it to you.”
“His attorney sent it to me.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is different.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Did Julian sign my name?”
“I don’t know.”
“He had access to my signature.”
“Sloan.”
“He has copies of tax returns, insurance forms, closing documents.”
“I know.”
“He could have copied it.”
“I know.”
I started pacing.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small, though an hour earlier it had felt impossibly empty.
“Call him.”
“No.”
“Darcy.”
“Do not confront him until we know what this document is and how it was executed.”
“My name is on a guarantee.”
“Yes.”
“A guarantee for what?”
“I’m still reading.”
I stopped beside the island.
“What does it say?”
“Give me thirty seconds.”
I hated those thirty seconds.
The dishwasher hummed.
A car passed outside.
Someone’s lawn service started a leaf blower even though there were almost no leaves in March.
Darcy finally spoke.
“The page appears to be part of a spousal consent and acknowledgment.”
My stomach twisted.
“Meaning?”
“It appears to acknowledge the financing and waive certain objections involving marital rights in assets disclosed by Julian.”
“Bellweather?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“I am not going to overstate this.”
I closed my eyes.
“Is my house collateral?”
“Not based on this page alone.”
“Then why is my signature there?”
“That is exactly what we need to find out.”
A notification appeared on my laptop.
Julian.
His message contained six words.
I just found out about signature.
Another arrived.
I did not sign your name.
I stared at it.
Darcy heard the silence.
“What happened?”
“He texted me.”
“What did he say?”
I read both messages aloud.
She paused.
“Do not reply yet.”
I almost laughed.
“You really enjoy telling me that.”
“I enjoy having clients who do not accidentally damage their own position.”
“I’m his wife.”
“You are also the person whose name may have been put on a financial document without permission.”
May you like
The distinction hurt.
I sat again.
