Chapter 3: She Chose the Wrong Side
The three words were: *She Signs Tomorrow.*
I stared at them long enough that the woman shifted her weight.
"You should leave," she said.
"This doesn't concern you."
"My name is on that folder," I said.
"Everything in this room concerns me."
She moved toward the desk.
I stepped between her and it.
"Don't," I said.
Something in my voice stopped her.
She looked at me the way people look at something they underestimated.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Not your name.
I mean — who are you to him?"
She set the folder down on a side table, slowly, the way you set something down when you're deciding whether to pick it back up.
"I'm his attorney," she said.
"His attorney." I let that sit.
"And you came here tonight because—"
"Because those documents need to be removed before morning." She glanced at the camera.
"He was watching to make sure you didn't look too closely."
"He sent me here to clean," I said.
"He thought I'd wipe the floor, stack the papers, and hand everything back to him without reading a word."
She said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I looked at the folder.
"What does *She Signs Tomorrow* mean?"
"It's not relevant now."
"It has my name on it."
"Mrs.—"
"Don't." I picked up the folder.
She reached for it.
I pulled it back.
"Those are privileged documents," she said, her voice sharpening.
"Privileged." I opened the cover.
Inside was a document I recognized immediately — a transfer of ownership.
My company.
My name on the left.
A blank line on the right where a second signature was supposed to go.
And beneath it, a notarized letter stating that I had agreed, in advance, to the transfer as part of divorce proceedings.
I had never signed anything.
I had never agreed to anything.
"He forged this," I said.
"That is not what that document—"
"He forged my agreement.
He was going to use this to take my company." I looked up at her.
"And you drafted it."
Her jaw tightened.
"I think you should put that down."
"I think you should tell me how long this has been planned."
She picked up her phone.
"I'm calling him."
"Go ahead." I raised mine.
"I've been photographing since I walked in.
Everything in that drawer.
Everything on that desk.
Including whatever was written in red ink on the cover of this folder, which you carried in yourself."
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
"If you call him right now," I said, "the first thing he'll ask is whether I've seen the documents.
And you'll have to tell him yes.
And then he'll ask whether I photographed them." I paused.
"What are you going to say?"
She lowered the phone.
The camera light was still blinking on the shelf.
I walked to it, looked directly into the lens, and held up the folder so the cover faced forward.
My name.
The red ink.
Clear as anything.
Then I looked back at her.
"Tell him I'm done cleaning," I said.
"Tell him I found everything spotless."
I walked to the door.
"Wait," she said.
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"If you use those photographs," she said, "he will make things very difficult for you."
"He already has," I said.
"The difference is, now I'm ready."
May you like
I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind me.
My hands had stopped shaking.
