He breathed heavily.
“I know this is probably the last call you want to get.”
“You're right.”
“I wouldn't call if it wasn't important.”
I stared at the wall.
“If Rachel wants something from the house, she can contact me through my attorney.”
“This isn't about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
He hesitated.
“Mike, I think you need to know what she's been telling me.”
A cold feeling spread through my stomach.
I pushed my plate away.
“Go ahead.”
Daniel sounded nervous.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Nervous.
“She told me your marriage ended months ago.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“She said you two had been separated since early summer. She told me you were still living in the same house because of the mortgage, but that the relationship was over.”
I looked around our kitchen.
Early summer.
That was when Rachel and I had spent a weekend in Cincinnati celebrating her birthday.
We had stayed in a hotel, gone to a concert, and talked about visiting Colorado the following year.
That was when she'd kissed me goodnight and told me she loved me.
“We weren't separated,” I said.
Daniel didn't answer immediately.
“She told me you agreed to the divorce months ago,” he continued.
I stood up.
“We never discussed divorce until she left eleven days ago.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Daniel whispered something I could barely hear.
“Jesus.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“That you knew about me. That you'd accepted the relationship was finished. She said you were both being mature about moving on.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Daniel, she walked out of our house eleven days ago and told me she wanted thirty days to decide between us.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
He swore quietly.
“That's not what she told me.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she was moving in with me because the divorce was already being finalized.”
I stared toward the hallway.
Suddenly, the last two weeks seemed even stranger.
Rachel had asked me to wait while she tested another relationship.
But Daniel apparently believed our marriage had already ended.
She had given each of us an entirely different story.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
Daniel hesitated.
“Because something happened yesterday.”
“What?”
“I found some paperwork.”
I felt my shoulders tighten.
“What kind of paperwork?”
“Documents about your house.”
My eyes moved toward the home office.
“What documents?”
He took a breath.
“Rachel's been talking about buying a place. A condo. She said she had money coming from a property settlement with you.”
I didn't speak.
“She asked me to scan some paperwork for her yesterday,” Daniel continued. “The document mentioned your townhouse, and there was a signature at the bottom.”
“Whose signature?”
“Yours.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“That's impossible.”
Daniel was quiet.
“Mike, she showed me a document with your signature on it.”
I sat down.
Slowly.
As though the room had tilted beneath me.
“What did the document say?”
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said, “It was some kind of power of attorney. It said she could sign financial and real estate documents on your behalf.”
I stared at the dining room wall.
“I never signed a power of attorney.”
“Are you sure?”
I almost shouted.
“Of course I'm sure!”
Daniel exhaled sharply.
“Okay.”
“What exactly did it authorize?”
His next words made the room seem to shrink around me.
“It authorized her to borrow against your house.”
I couldn't move.
Daniel continued, speaking quickly now.
“There was a home-equity credit application in the packet. It mentioned a ninety-six-thousand-dollar credit line. Rachel said the money was part of your divorce settlement, that you were letting her take her share before the house was sold.”
I looked at the empty plastic sleeve in my financial folder.
The unfamiliar property records charge.
The open office drawer.
The identification copies that had vanished.
For the first time, those details began connecting.
“Daniel,” I said quietly, “we don't have a divorce settlement.”
He stopped speaking.
“We haven't even filed the divorce paperwork yet.”
There was a terrible silence.
Then he said, “Mike, I think she may have forged your signature.”
My mouth went dry.
“Send me the document.”
“I can.”
“Now.”
“Okay.”
“Every page you have.”
“I'll send everything.”
I heard him moving around.
A few seconds later, my phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared in our text conversation.
It showed the bottom of a formal document.
There was typed legal language I didn't immediately understand.
A line identifying me as the principal.
A notary block.
And beneath my printed name was a signature.
My signature.
Or something that looked almost exactly like it.
I enlarged the image.
The familiar slant of the M.
The looping H in Harper.
The unusual way I connected the final letters of my surname.
It looked like something I had signed.
Except I hadn't.
Not once in my entire life had I authorized Rachel to borrow ninety-six thousand dollars against our home without speaking to me.
I checked the date.
August 14.
I stared at it for several seconds.