Chapter 6: Marcus
Paul told me not to confront Marcus until the forensic examiner had confirmed the forgery in writing.
That would take forty-eight hours, maybe seventy-two.
Until then, I was to act normally.
Go to the office Monday morning.
Say nothing.
Watch everything.
I told him I understood.
Monday morning I drove to the office and parked in my usual spot and rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked to my desk and turned on my computer.
Marcus arrived twenty minutes later.
He stopped when he saw me — just a half-second pause, barely visible — then kept walking to his own desk.
"Didn't expect you in today," he said.
"After everything this weekend."
"Where else would I be?"
He sat down.
Opened his laptop.
"How's Lily?"
The question landed wrong.
He'd asked it too easily, like a man who'd rehearsed it.
"She's fine," I said.
"And you and Vanessa—"
"Done." I looked at my screen.
"It's over."
"I'm sorry," he said.
I didn't answer.
We worked in silence for two hours.
Or I worked.
I watched Marcus from the edge of my vision and noticed the things I hadn't noticed before — the way he angled his screen slightly away from the room, the way he checked his phone under the desk rather than on top of it, the way he'd stopped leaving his drawers unlocked.
The bottom drawer now had a small combination lock on it that hadn't been there on Saturday night.
He'd been back to the office between Saturday night and Monday morning.
He knew I might look.
At noon he said he had a lunch meeting and left.
I waited five minutes, then went to his desk.
The combination lock was new and I couldn't open it.
But I didn't need to.
I already had what I needed.
What I was looking for now was something else.
On the corner of his desk, half-hidden under a legal pad, was a sticky note.
Four digits.
Written in Marcus's handwriting — he always wrote his temporary codes down and then threw the note away later.
He'd forgotten this one.
I memorized the number and went back to my desk.
That afternoon Paul called.
"The examiner has made a preliminary finding," he said.
"The signature on the transfer document is not consistent with your genuine signature samples.
She's identified three specific characteristics that indicate it was traced from a photocopied original — likely your signature from a previous contract."
"That's enough?"
"For a preliminary finding, yes.
For court, she'll need to complete the full report.
But we have enough to file for an emergency injunction to freeze the transfer pending investigation." He paused.
"I want to file tomorrow morning."
"Do it."
"Once we file, Marcus will know immediately.
His attorney will call him within the hour.
Are you prepared for that?"
"Yes."
"He may also contact Vanessa."
"Let him."
After I hung up, I sat at my desk and looked at the sticky note number I'd memorized.
Then I thought about what Paul had said.
*His attorney will call him within the hour.*
I had one hour before Marcus knew.
I went back to his desk.
Entered the four digits.
The lock opened.
Inside the drawer was a single manila envelope.
My name was written on the front in Marcus's handwriting.
I opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Handwritten, two pages.
The date at the top was three weeks ago.
*If you're reading this, then something went wrong and I'm sorry.
I need you to know I didn't start this wanting to hurt you.
She came to me first.
She had information about the February loan — the one I never told you about — and she said if I didn't help her, she'd report it.
I didn't have a choice.
I know that's not enough.
I know it doesn't fix anything.
But I need you to know she was the one who forged your signature.
I watched her do it.
I have the original document she traced it from.
It's in the safety deposit box at First National, box 447.
The key is taped to the back of the bottom drawer.*
May you like
I turned the drawer over.
The key was there.
