I looked at her. "No. My problem is that I spent four years confusing calm with trust."
I turned toward the door. She called my name once, but I didn't stop. As I got into the car I'd arranged to take me to the airport, I saw her through the hotel windows, standing in the same place with her phone in her hand. I wondered whom she was calling. Adrian, Colin, a lawyer, or someone I hadn't even heard of yet.
Travel is a strange place to experience a personal disaster. Other people are still on vacation. Airport screens continue advertising weekends in warm cities. Couples argue gently over coffee orders while you're trying to establish whether the person you love has forged your signature on property documents. At a gate near the end of the terminal, I sat between two tourists discussing the best deep-dish pizza they'd eaten and stared at photographs of my father's cabinets on Nora's phone.
The tall cabinets had been wrapped in padded blankets. A photograph showed a yellow inventory tag tied to the arched table. Another showed the cedar drafting chest with its drawers taped shut. Seeing the pieces prepared for transport made me unexpectedly angry. They looked like bodies someone had covered after deciding the family would be better off not watching.
Miriam called at 6:50. Her voice was alert despite the hour, and she immediately began separating what we knew from what we suspected. She asked whether I had signed any general power of attorney, consignment agreement, or recent release concerning the collection.
I said no. She asked whether Tessa was an owner of the workshop or any of the furniture. I said no. She asked whether there were contracts giving Tessa authority to act for the business, and I admitted she had managed correspondence but was never authorized to transfer title.
"Good," Miriam said. "Preserve the original messages, don't alter files, and don't communicate accusations to clients. The police report matters, but these disputes can have both civil and criminal dimensions. We need to see the exact document they presented before I tell you what remedies are available."
"Can they just drive the truck away?"
"Not while the freight company is voluntarily holding the disputed goods, but we need to move quickly. I'll contact their counsel and put the ownership dispute in writing. I'm also contacting the insurer to confirm what is covered and what notice they need."
I rubbed a hand over my face. "How did I miss this?"
Miriam was quiet for a moment. "Daniel, don't do the other side's work for them. You can review your own decisions later. Right now, we establish the facts."
It was the sort of answer Dad would have liked. She made no promise that everything would be fine. She gave me something to do. I went through my email again, searched for consignment language, and found no record of authorizing the transfer. There were plenty of conversations about prospective exhibits and possible evaluations. None instructed a freight company to remove the collection on a Thursday night.
I landed shortly after ten, rented a car, and drove toward Pittsburgh beneath a sky so bright it looked unreasonable. Nora called as I crossed the river. She had slept for ninety minutes at most. Malik was at the workshop, helping her verify the inventory and check the security system, and the transport supervisor had agreed to leave the disputed items on the premises until lawyers finished reviewing the paperwork.