Chapter 2 - THE SIGNATURE IN RED
Marcus stared at the thick, embossed paper in my hand. The fever was roaring in my ears, a high-pitched hum of adrenaline and sickness, but my vision had never been clearer.
“That’s a forgery,” Marcus said. But his voice lacked its usual arrogant bass. It was thin. Panicked.
Vivian stood up, her chair scraping violently against the marble floor. “Nora, stop this nonsense. You do not own this house. My son bought it three years ago.”
“Your son,” I said, leaning heavily against the granite kitchen island, “took out a second mortgage to cover his gambling debts. Debts he hid from you, Vivian.”
Marcus lunged for the paper.
I didn’t flinch. I pulled it back just out of his reach. “Touch me again, Marcus, and the assault charges will make the financial fraud look like a misdemeanor.”
He froze. His hand hovered in the air.
“Six months ago,” I continued, my breath coming short but steady, “the bank was going to foreclose. Marcus was terrified of the scandal. He came to my legal firm. He begged me to fix it. So, I bought the debt. I paid it off with the trust my late father left me. In exchange, Marcus signed the deed over to my LLC.”
Vivian whipped her head toward her son. “Tell me she’s lying.”
Marcus swallowed hard. The sweat on his forehead had nothing to do with a fever. “Mother, I can explain—”
“You have thirty minutes to pack,” I said, cutting him off.
Vivian’s face turned a mottled, furious red. She stormed toward the hallway, her heels clicking like gunshots. “I am not leaving! I brought antique furniture into this house! The silver dining set alone—”
“The silver dining set was appraised and sold last week,” I said.
Vivian stopped dead. She turned, her eyes wide with horror.
“You think you were the only one who noticed things disappearing?” I asked softly. “You sold my grandmother’s wedding china to pay for your country club dues, Vivian. I just returned the favor. The house is empty of anything that belongs to you. Except your clothes.”
Marcus stared at me as if he were looking at a stranger. “You’ve been planning this.”
“I’ve been surviving,” I corrected.
I turned my back on them and walked toward the coat closet. I needed my car keys. I needed to get to a hospital before the fever completely overtook me.
As I reached into the pocket of Marcus’s heavy wool overcoat to grab my spare keys, my fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of thick paper.
I pulled it out.
It was a receipt. But not for a restaurant or a tailor.
May you like
It was a receipt from St. Jude’s Pediatric Specialty Clinic. Dated two days ago. Paid in cash by Marcus. For a patient named Leo.
I stared at the name. We had no children. Marcus had always insisted he never wanted any. At the bottom of the receipt was a handwritten note in blue ink: Clara says thank you.
