Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE
The man at the door wore a gray suit and carried a thick envelope.
I didn’t open the door.
“What property?”
He held an ID card to the window.
“I’m a process server.”
My stomach dropped.
Natalie whispered, “Don’t sign anything.”
I cracked the door with the chain still hooked.
The man slid the envelope through.
“You’ve been served.”
“For what?”
“I’m not authorized to explain the documents, ma’am.”
Then he walked away.
I ripped open the envelope.
FORECLOSURE NOTICE.
I felt the room tilt.
Natalie took the papers from me.
“This is insane.”
“No,” I said. “Insane was yesterday. Today is apparently the sequel.”
My lawyer, Monica Shaw, arrived less than an hour later.
She was five foot three, maybe fifty, and looked like the kind of woman who ate weak men for breakfast.
She spread every document across my dining table.
“First question,” she said. “Did you sign any of these?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize Ryan to sign for you?”
“No.”
“Did you know about the credit line?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I stared at her.
“How is any of that good?”
“Because fraud changes things.”
Natalie’s lawyer joined by speakerphone.
For the next two hours, we reconstructed Ryan’s lies.
He had told Natalie their divorce was final.
He had shown me a divorce decree before our wedding.
Monica asked me if I still had it.
“I think so.”
I ran upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, we found it in a box marked WEDDING.
The paper looked official.
Court seal.
Case number.
Judge’s signature.
Natalie photographed it.
Then she went very still.
“What?”
“That isn’t the judge.”
Monica looked up.
“You’re sure?”
“The judge on our case was a woman.”
The name on my copy belonged to a man.
Monica immediately checked the county court records.
No decree existed.
The case number belonged to a completely unrelated custody dispute.
Ryan hadn’t lied about the divorce.
He had manufactured one.
I felt sick.
“How long do you think he planned this?”
Monica looked at the loan documents.
“Long enough to understand exactly what he was doing.”
She pointed to my signature.
“Did Ryan have access to samples?”
“He had access to everything.”
Checks.
Tax forms.
Insurance papers.
My passport.
My entire life.
Monica studied me.
“Where is your passport?”
I blinked.
“In the desk upstairs.”
I checked.
It wasn’t there.
Neither was Ryan’s.
Neither were several old tax returns.
I came back downstairs.
“My passport is gone.”
Nobody spoke.
Monica immediately called the detective assigned to Ryan’s case.
By that evening, Detective Harris was in my living room.
He took copies of the loan paperwork and the fake divorce decree.
“Do either of you know whether Ryan has other financial accounts?”
“No,” I said.
Natalie hesitated.
Harris noticed.
“What?”
She stared at the floor.
“There might be one.”
My head snapped toward her.
“What do you mean?”
“Years ago, Ryan rented a storage unit.”
“So?”
“He told me it was for business records.”
“Where?”
Natalie gave the name of a facility twenty minutes away.
“Do you have access?”
She shook her head.
Then she reached into her purse.
“But I have this.”
She placed a small brass key on the table.
Harris picked it up.
“Why?”
“Because Ryan never knew I kept a copy.”
Harris leaned back.
“Do not go there yourselves.”
Natalie and I looked at each other.
He pointed at both of us.
“I mean it.”
He left at eight.
At 8:17, Natalie grabbed her coat.
I stared at her.
“Seriously?”
She looked at the key.
“Do you really think I’m going to sleep tonight wondering what he hid in there?”
I hated that she had a point.
Twenty-five minutes later, we stood outside storage unit 214.
Natalie slid the key into the lock.
It turned.
She lifted the metal door.
Inside were six filing cabinets.
Three cardboard boxes.
Two suitcases.
And taped to the front of the nearest cabinet was a photograph.
Ryan stood in the center.
His arm was around a woman I had never seen before.
On the back, someone had written:
TO RYAN — CAN’T WAIT TO BECOME MRS. COLE.
I looked at Natalie.
She looked at me.
May you like
Then a voice behind us said:
“You two really shouldn’t be here.”
