Chương 12
“Could Daniel have done it?”
“Possibly.”
“Could Ridgeway?”
“That would be a serious allegation without evidence.”
“Could Julian be lying?”
“Yes.”
She said it without hesitation.
I appreciated that and hated it.
“What happens now?”
“I’m going to ask for the execution record.”
“What’s that?”
“If it was electronically signed, there may be an audit trail showing the email address, time, authentication method, and possibly network information associated with the signature.”
“So we can prove who did it.”
“No.”
Her tone sharpened.
“We may learn how the signature was applied.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Right.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
“I’m emphasizing it because you want certainty right now.”
“I want one thing today to mean exactly what it looks like.”
Darcy was quiet.
“That may not happen.”
I looked at the forged version of my name.
“Call me when you know more.”
After we hung up, I remained at the table.
Julian sent nothing else.
That restraint frightened me almost as much as the messages.
Normally he would have called repeatedly until I answered.
I pictured him at Camille’s kitchen table, probably staring at his own copy of the document.
I wondered whether he was as shocked as I was.
Then I wondered whether shock could be performed convincingly by text.
I hated that my mind worked that way now.
At one fifteen, Camille called.
I answered.
“Sloan.”
Her voice was tight.
“Did you know?”
“About the signature?”
“Yes.”
“Darcy sent it.”
A pause.
“Julian is losing his mind.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“I know.”
I heard movement, then a door closing on her end.
“I’m in my bedroom.”
“Why?”
“Because he keeps asking me to listen while he reconstructs every email he has ever sent.”
“That sounds like him.”
“It does.”
Her voice softened.
“He says he didn’t do it.”
I looked at the signature again.
“Do you believe him?”
Camille was quiet for long enough that I knew she was taking the question seriously.
“I believe he is terrified.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
She exhaled.
“I don’t know.”
I appreciated her for not giving me the easy answer.
“He has lied about so much.”
“I know.”
“But this is different.”
“Why?”
“Because signing your name would mean he knew the financing depended on pretending you agreed.”
I swallowed.
“And you don’t think he would do that?”
“I think yesterday I would have said absolutely not.”
“And today?”
“Today I found out my brother risked our family company and invented a vacation to manipulate his wife.”
She gave a small, miserable laugh.
“My scale is recalibrating.”
I leaned back.
“Has he contacted Daniel?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I took his phone.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“You took a forty-year-old man’s phone?”
“He gave it to me eventually.”
“What does eventually mean?”
“He called me several names first.”
“That sounds healthier.”
“I thought so.”
There was a knock on her side.
Camille said, “Go away.”
Julian’s muffled voice answered.
“I need my charger.”
“You have three.”
“One of them is in there.”
“Use another.”
“This is ridiculous.”
She lowered her voice.
“See?”
“I hear.”
Julian knocked again.
“Camille.”
She opened the door.
I heard him say, “Are you talking to Sloan?”
Camille did not answer fast enough.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“I need to talk to my wife.”
“You need to give her space.”
“That is not your decision.”
“It became my decision when you moved into my guest room carrying a duffel bag and a financial crime documentary.”
“Camille.”
I spoke before their argument grew.
“Put me on speaker.”
Silence.
Then Julian’s voice came closer.
“Sloan?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
My throat tightened.
“You already texted me.”
“I need you to hear me say it.”
I closed my eyes.
“I hear you.”
“I never signed your name.”
“Did you know the document existed?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
Camille said, “Julian.”
He rushed on.
“I knew there was a spousal acknowledgment.”
“Did you send it to me?”
“I thought Daniel’s office handled that.”
“You thought?”
“He said they would circulate it directly.”
“To what email?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t check?”
“I assumed you’d received it.”
I stood again.
“You assumed I signed a financing document and never mentioned it?”
“I thought you had seen it.”
“How?”
“Because he told me it was completed.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“Did you ever ask me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Julian did not answer.
I waited.
Finally he said, “Because I was afraid you’d ask questions.”
There it was.
Not a confession to forgery.
Something almost as damaging.
“You thought I signed something without reading it?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You thought I would sign a document connected to a business you had never told me existed.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds impossible.”
“I know.”
Camille muttered something I could not hear.
Julian said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
“I said you believed what was convenient.”
“That is not helpful.”
“It is also not wrong.”
I cut in.
“Did Daniel ever ask for a copy of my identification?”
Julian paused.
“No.”
“My email address?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Early on.”
“Why?”
“He said it was for know-your-customer documentation.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Our tax return.”
My free hand tightened around the edge of the table.
“You sent our joint tax return to a man you never met?”
“I sent it through a secure portal.”
“What portal?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep not knowing.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
I stopped.
That small break in his voice did something unpleasant to my anger.
It made room for grief.
I did not want room for grief yet.
“Did you send him my driver’s license?”
“No.”
“Passport?”
“No.”
“Social Security number?”
Julian went silent.
My stomach dropped.
“Julian.”
“It was on the tax documents.”
I sat down.
Camille swore under her breath.
May you like
I stared at the wall.
For seven years, we had combined paperwork because marriage made convenience feel harmless.
