I wanted her words to make the shame disappear. They didn't. But they helped me separate my poor judgment from someone else's deliberate choices. That distinction would become essential in the weeks that followed.
We kept the workshop closed to visitors over the weekend, not because the furniture had been damaged but because we needed time to understand what had been touched. Malik checked the doors, drawers, and joints while Nora photographed every shelf in the office. I inspected the furniture and found only minor handling marks that could be documented and repaired. The physical relief of seeing the pieces intact made the missing archive more painful by contrast.
Dad's commission notebook was not a valuable object in the obvious sense. It was covered in faded blue cloth, its edges softened by decades of handling, and one corner had a burn mark from the time he set it too close to a lamp. But it contained dated sketches, signed correspondence, measurements, receipts, and notes that connected each finished piece to a particular commission. Without it, the story of the Riverlight collection was still true; with it, the truth was much easier to prove.
The portfolio drawer had been emptied with care. Whoever removed the papers hadn't overturned the office or smashed a lock. The metal clips were stacked in one corner, the folders had been taken in a deliberate order, and the protective sheets were missing along with the originals. That made the removal look less like careless moving and more like someone selecting precisely what would help authenticate a sale.
Miriam brought in an independent document examiner to evaluate the consignment release, but she warned me not to expect a television-style revelation. A signature could be imitated in several ways, and it was not always possible to establish authorship from an image or a scan alone. The stronger question was whether any legitimate consent existed, who transmitted the document, and what records showed about its creation. She requested the electronic version through counsel and asked Northline to preserve its transaction history.
By Monday, the facts had begun organizing themselves into a picture that made me feel worse each time another piece fell into place. A preliminary purchase interest had come from a collector represented by Northline. Tessa had communicated that I was willing to consider a transfer of the entire collection. A draft agreement named her as my representative and listed a commission arrangement that would pay her substantially if the transaction closed. The freight move was described as a temporary conservation and inspection transfer, but it was tied to the proposed sale.
There was also a reference to an advance. I asked Miriam what it meant.
She looked at the page for a moment and said, "It appears someone expected an early payment against a future commission or sale. I won't know to whom or under what conditions until we have the supporting agreement." I understood the words individually but couldn't fit them together. Tessa had been arguing that a sale would save me from needless expenses. Now it appeared she might already have spent money she expected to receive from one.
On Monday evening, I returned to the house Tessa and I had shared. She hadn't come back from Chicago, although her suitcase and some clothing were missing from the closet. Because the house was in my name and we'd lived there together, I followed Miriam's advice about access rather than treating a breakup as permission to change locks and throw out someone's belongings. We would arrange for Tessa to collect her things in a documented, orderly way. I hated having to be careful in my own home, but the alternative would have created another conflict she could use.
I walked through the rooms without turning on many lights. Her yellow sofa sat beneath the living-room window, a bowl she'd bought in Santa Fe rested on the coffee table, and one of her scarves hung from a chair. The familiar objects made the house feel occupied and abandoned at the same time. I had once thought a home was the sum of the people who loved each other inside it. Now I understood how slowly the objects could outlast that love.
On the kitchen counter, Tessa had left a note before our trip reminding me to water the herbs. I stood looking at her handwriting, then opened the drawer where we kept household receipts. For the first time I began separating the real financial history of our relationship from the arguments we'd used to describe it. I'd paid the mortgage and most utilities; she'd paid for groceries, furnishings, trips, and some repairs. Those contributions mattered, and I intended to account for them fairly. But they didn't give either of us a right to turn the other's possessions into collateral for private decisions.
Nora came over with food because she knew I would forget to eat. We sat at the table, the same table Dad had helped me repair after I bought the house, and she asked whether I wanted to know her opinion of Tessa. I told her I already knew it. She shook her head and said, "No, I mean the whole opinion, not the polite version I've given you for four years."
"Go ahead," I said.