Chương 11
“How much?”
“The recorded purchase price was three hundred eighty-five thousand.”
“That’s bigger than our money.”
“Correct.”
“Who financed it?”
“Some financing is public, some details aren’t immediately available.”
“Is Barron named anywhere?”
“Not in the deed record I found.”
I looked at the hidden spreadsheet.
“Then why would he be collecting money?”
“I don’t know yet.”
My mother asked, “Is this illegal?”
Tony answered carefully.
“Investing in private real estate is not illegal.”
“Using my daughter’s name without permission?”
“That could mean several things depending on what he actually did with it.”
I leaned forward.
“What things?”
“If he merely wrote your initials in a private spreadsheet, that is one issue.”
“And if he told people I committed money?”
“Another.”
“And if he signed something?”
Tony paused.
“That becomes much more serious.”
My phone buzzed.
An email had arrived from an address I did not recognize.
The subject line contained my full legal name.
I opened it.
There was no message.
Only an attachment.
PDF.
“Tony.”
“What?”
“I just received something.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do not open attachments from unknown senders.”
“I already did.”
He muttered something.
The document loaded.
At the top was the name Easton Ridge Development LLC.
Below it were several pages of subscription paperwork.
I scrolled.
My mouth went dry.
There was my address.
My phone number.
My occupation.
My annual income, slightly wrong but close.
Then I reached the signature page.
My name appeared in typed letters.
Below it was a signature.
It looked like mine.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
My mother whispered, “Adela?”
Tony heard her.
“What do you see?”
I could barely get the words out.
“There’s an investment agreement.”
“In whose name?”
“Mine.”
“How much?”
I scrolled back.
“Thirty-eight thousand.”
The amount from the spreadsheet.
Tony’s voice sharpened.
“Do not forward it yet.”
“Why?”
“We need the original email preserved.”
“I didn’t sign this.”
“I know.”
“I never saw this document.”
“I know.”
My mother leaned closer.
“Who sent it?”
I checked the address again.
The sender name was Marissa Cole.
Bruno’s wife.
A second email arrived before I could speak.
This time there was text.
Adela, I found this on Bruno’s laptop.
I don’t know what Barron told you.
I don’t know what any of them are doing.
Please do not tell Bruno I sent it.
I stared at the words.
My mother read them over my shoulder.
Then another message followed.
There are other names.
Tony said, “What?”
I swallowed.
“Marissa says there are other investors.”
“Ask her how many.”
I typed the question.
The response came less than a minute later.
Seven.
Then another.
And your name is not the only signature I think is fake.
I stared at Marissa’s message until the letters stopped looking like words.
My mother sat beside me without touching the phone.
Tony said my name twice before I answered.
“She says seven investors.”
“Does she have the full set of documents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask.”
I typed carefully because my fingers had begun to shake.
Do you have copies of all seven agreements?
Marissa responded almost immediately.
Not all.
Four.
Bruno downloaded them because Barron asked him to check the names against a spreadsheet.
Tony’s voice changed.
“What spreadsheet?”
I told him.
“Ask whether she still has it.”
I sent another message.
The three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
Finally Marissa replied.
Yes.
But Bruno is home now.
I can’t keep doing this from the house.
My mother read over my shoulder.
“She’s frightened.”
“Of Bruno?”
“Maybe of what happens if he knows.”
Tony said, “Tell her not to take risks.”
I typed that.
Marissa sent back a single line.
Too late.
Then she stopped responding.
I called her once.
No answer.
Tony told me not to call again.
“She knows how to reach you.”
“What if Bruno takes the laptop?”
“What if he already did?”
“That’s exactly why I want to call.”
“And if your call causes a confrontation in that house?”
I looked at my mother.
He was right, which irritated me more than if he had been wrong.
“What do we do?”
“We preserve what we already have.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It may have to be enough for this afternoon.”
I hated the phrase this afternoon.
It sounded temporary in a situation that felt permanent.
Tony asked me to send screenshots of Marissa’s messages, the email headers, the investment agreement, and the spreadsheet copy.
Then he instructed me to stop contacting everyone connected to Barron unless he approved it first.
“That includes Celina.”
“I wasn’t planning to call Celina.”
“And Bruno.”
“He called me.”
“Do not have substantive conversations with him.”
“You make marriage sound like organized crime.”
Tony sighed.
“Right now, I’m trying to prevent you from accidentally damaging evidence or frightening people into deleting things.”
My mother said, “He has a point again.”
I looked at her.
“You’re becoming unbearable.”
“I have always been unbearable.”
“That is true.”
She seemed pleased.
For the next hour, nothing happened.
That was almost worse.
The hotel room became too small for waiting.
I opened and closed drawers.
My mother watched a cooking show with the volume low.
A woman on television explained how to keep chicken from drying out, and suddenly I thought of the groceries still sitting on my kitchen counter.
The chicken had probably spoiled by now.
Milk too.
Barron hated wasted groceries.
He used to stand at the refrigerator every Sunday and lecture me about buying vegetables we did not finish.
I could hear his voice so clearly that I nearly reached for my phone.
Then I saw my mother’s cheek.
The swelling had darkened into purple along one edge.
I sat back down.
At four-ten, Tony called.
“I spoke with a colleague who handles securities matters.”
My stomach tightened.
“Are we using the word securities now?”
“We’re using the word documents.”
“That sounds less terrifying.”
“It shouldn’t.”
My mother muted the television.
May you like
Tony continued.
“If Barron or Dominic solicited money for an investment using false representations, forged signatures, or inaccurate investor information, that creates issues far beyond divorce.”
