Chapter 2 - The Signature I Never Gave
The officer took my phone without touching the screen.
"Don't delete anything."
"I didn't sign that."
Brandon stared at the floor.
Lorraine suddenly wanted to leave.
The female officer stepped between her and the door.
"No one is leaving yet."
I looked at my husband.
"Brandon."
He raised his eyes.
"Tell me what this is."
"I don't know."
"You signed it."
"Anybody can type a name into a document."
"It isn't typed."
His signature was handwritten.
So was mine.
Or something designed to look like mine.
Officer Ramirez—that was the female officer's name—asked me to forward the email to an evidence address.
Her partner, Officer Daniels, separated Brandon from us.
Lorraine kept talking.
She claimed the morning had been a misunderstanding.
She claimed the soup spill had been accidental.
She claimed Brandon had merely "pushed my face away" after I became aggressive.
Then Officer Ramirez played the kitchen footage.
The video ended the argument.
Lorraine's wrist turned.
The stew poured.
I recoiled.
Brandon ordered me to apologize.
I refused.
He slapped me.
Lorraine smiled.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Officer Daniels turned toward Brandon.
"Put your hands behind your back."
Brandon's confidence disappeared.
"Wait."
"Hands behind your back."
"Claire."
I couldn't look at him.
"Claire, tell them this isn't necessary."
Officer Daniels cuffed him.
Lorraine rushed forward.
"You can't arrest my son because his wife is vindictive!"
Officer Ramirez blocked her.
"Back up."
"This is outrageous."
"Back up now."
Lorraine stopped.
Brandon was led toward the door.
He looked at me one final time.
Not with remorse.
With betrayal.
As though I had done something to him.
That expression ended whatever remained of my marriage.
Paramedics arrived.
The burns were painful but fortunately superficial.
They cleaned my legs, treated the blistered areas, and recommended that I go to the hospital.
I agreed.
Before leaving, I changed the condo access code.
Then I removed Brandon's fingerprint access.
Then Lorraine's code.
Then every device I didn't recognize.
There were three.
That bothered me.
I had authorized only my phone and laptop.
One unknown device had been accessing the smart-home system for six weeks.
Six weeks.
Before the wedding.
At the hospital, I sat beneath fluorescent lights while a nurse photographed my injuries for the medical record.
My cheek had swollen.
My lip required two stitches.
The doctor told me the burns should heal without scarring if I cared for them properly.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I kept thinking about the forged document.
Property transfer agreement.
Why would Brandon have prepared paperwork transferring my condo before we were married?
Officer Ramirez called that afternoon.
"The document concerns us."
"Did Brandon explain it?"
"He says he has never seen it."
"He's lying."
"Maybe. We need evidence."
She asked about my finances.
Bank accounts.
Insurance.
Property.
Prenuptial agreement.
That last question hurt.
"No prenup."
"Why?"
"Because I trusted him."
She didn't judge me.
"Do you share accounts?"
"We opened one joint checking account for household expenses."
"How much is in it?"
"About eighteen thousand."
"Check it."
I opened my banking application.
The balance was $312.
I stopped breathing.
Three transfers had been made the previous afternoon.
$5,900.
$5,900.
$5,888.
All to an account I didn't recognize.
I sent screenshots to Officer Ramirez.
Then I called the bank.
The fraud department froze the account.
The transfers were still pending.
That was the first piece of good luck I'd had all day.
The second came from my friend Naomi.
She arrived at the hospital carrying sweatpants, sneakers, my laptop, and enough anger for both of us.
Naomi had disliked Brandon from the beginning.
She had never said it directly.
She hadn't needed to.
At my wedding reception, she'd hugged me and whispered, "If you ever need somewhere to disappear for a night, my door doesn't lock."
I had laughed.
Now she sat beside my hospital bed.
"I should have said something."
"About what?"
"His mother."
"Everybody noticed Lorraine."
"Not just Lorraine."
She hesitated.
"Brandon asked me something at your rehearsal dinner."
"What?"
"Whether your condo was protected if you divorced."
I stared at her.
"He asked you that?"
"He made it sound casual."
"What exactly did he say?"
Naomi thought.
"He said, 'Claire bought the place before we met, so I guess I'm screwed if she ever gets tired of me.' Then he laughed."
My stomach turned.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were getting married the next day."
I closed my eyes.
"That's exactly why you should have told me."
"I know."
She reached for my hand.
"I'm sorry."
My laptop chimed.
Another email.
This one came from the condo management company.
SUBJECT: REQUEST TO ADD RESIDENT OWNER.
I opened it.
A request had been submitted ten days earlier to add Brandon as an owner rather than an occupant.
Attached was a copy of the same transfer agreement.
My forged signature.
Brandon's real signature.
And a notarization.
I recognized the notary's name.
Diane Mercer.
Lorraine's sister.
Brandon's aunt.
The conspiracy had just grown.
I called Officer Ramirez.
She asked me not to contact Diane.
Police would handle it.
But Naomi was staring at another part of the document.
"Claire."
"What?"
"Look at the date."
I did.
The notarization was dated the Friday before our wedding.
"I was at work that day."
"Can you prove it?"
"My building uses badge access."
Naomi smiled grimly.
"Then prove it."
I emailed my office security department.
Within an hour, they sent records showing I had entered my office at 8:04 a.m. and left at 6:17 p.m.
The notarization claimed I had personally appeared before Diane at 2:30.
Impossible.
Officer Ramirez called again.
"This is becoming a separate fraud investigation."
"Against Brandon?"
"Potentially against several people."
Several.
The word made my skin crawl.
That evening, the hospital discharged me.
Naomi drove me home.
The condo felt different.
Not because of the overturned chair or the faint stain on the rug.
Because every room now contained questions.
How long had Brandon been planning this?
Had he married me for the condo?
Had Lorraine encouraged him?
Had Diane helped forge the paperwork?
I walked into the bedroom.
Half the closet belonged to Brandon.
His suits.
His shoes.
His watches.
Officer Ramirez had told me not to throw anything away yet.
I wouldn't.
But I needed space.
I took a blanket and slept on the sofa.
At 11:43 p.m., someone tried the front-door keypad.
Four numbers.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Access denied.
I sat upright.
Another attempt.
Access denied.
I opened the camera.
Lorraine stood outside.
She looked directly into the lens.
Then she held up an envelope.
She slid it beneath my door.
And left.
I waited ten minutes before touching it.
Inside was a photograph from my wedding.
Brandon and me beneath the white flowers.
On the back, Lorraine had written one sentence.
YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU MARRIED INTO.
Beneath it was a second line.
ASK BRANDON ABOUT SARAH.
I had never heard that name before.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
"Claire?"
"Who is this?"
Silence.
Then:
"My name is Sarah."
My hand tightened around the phone.
She took a shaking breath.
May you like
"I was Brandon's wife."
And the line went dead.
