Chapter 6 - THE AUTHORIZATION THAT COULD COST US EVERYTHING
“What existing authorization?” I asked.
Melissa stared at the page.
“I don't know.”
I wanted to shake her.
Instead, I forced myself to breathe.
“Daniel told you I was leaving. He told the school I'd agreed. He showed you plans for Oliver's room. Are you telling me you never questioned any of it?”
“I questioned him,” she whispered. “Just not enough.”
“Why?”
She looked at her hands.
“Because I was tired of being alone.”
I said nothing.
“My marriage ended four years ago,” she continued. “I spent years being told I was difficult, that nobody would ever stay. Daniel made me feel chosen.”
I looked away.
I didn't want to hear how my husband had made another woman feel special.
Not when I remembered how he'd stopped noticing me.
Melissa wiped her eyes.
“That doesn't excuse what I did.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn't.”
She nodded.
Then she pushed the folder toward me.
“But I don't want you losing your home because I believed him.”
I photographed the documents.
Then I called Rebecca.
Her instructions were immediate and practical.
Do not sign anything.
Do not agree to a refinancing appointment.
Save the documents.
Contact the lender's fraud department to challenge any purported authorization.
I followed her advice.
The lender confirmed that an application existed but would not discuss confidential borrower information beyond what it could verify with me.
I explained that I disputed any signature attributed to me.
The representative opened a fraud review.
She also said any closing would require confirmation of the necessary parties' authorization.
I hung up feeling slightly steadier.
Melissa hadn't moved from the bench.
“What happens now?” she asked.
I looked at her.
“You stay away from my son unless school personnel specifically require otherwise. You don't discuss this with him. And you tell the truth when the proper people ask.”
She nodded.
“I will.”
“Even if it costs you your job?”
Her lips trembled.
“Yes.”
I believed she meant it.
That didn't mean I trusted her.
By lunch, Rebecca had contacted an attorney experienced in financial disputes.
Thomas was reviewing the available records.
And I had placed alerts on my personal credit accounts.
For the first time, I was taking steps Daniel hadn't predicted.
Still, one question bothered me.
What was the existing authorization?
I remembered signing documents when Daniel started D.M. Project Holdings two years earlier.
He'd told me he wanted a small investment company for potential construction opportunities.
I'd reviewed the tax implications.
But there had also been a bank packet.
I searched our household files that evening while Daniel took Oliver to soccer practice.
At the back of an old folder, I found the original company documents.
There was an operating agreement.
A bank resolution.
And a limited authorization I'd signed permitting Daniel to manage certain joint investment funds within specified limits.
It didn't authorize him to sign my name on new loans.
But I noticed something troubling.
One exhibit referenced a separate asset schedule.
That schedule wasn't attached to my copy.
I photographed the reference and sent it to Rebecca.
Then I checked an old email from the bank where the investment account had originally been opened.
The message included an attachment.
I opened it.
The asset schedule listed two sources of funds.
Our joint investment savings.
And proceeds from a construction profit-sharing arrangement.
But Daniel had never received that profit-sharing payment.
At least, not that I knew.
A new suspicion formed.
Perhaps Daniel and Peter had been using the account for business transactions that had nothing to do with the investments I'd approved.
At seven, Daniel and Oliver returned.
Oliver ran into the kitchen.
“Mom! I scored!”
I knelt.
“You scored a goal?”
He grinned.
“Almost! It bounced off Mason.”
I laughed despite everything.
“That's still exciting.”
Daniel walked in behind him.
For a moment, watching our son celebrate, I saw the family we used to be.
Then Daniel noticed the paperwork on the counter.
“What are those?”
“Old investment records.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Just organizing things.”
He looked toward Oliver.
“Buddy, go wash up.”
Oliver disappeared upstairs.
Daniel lowered his voice.
“Are you checking up on me?”
I held his gaze.
“Should I be?”
He stared.
Then laughed without humor.
“Sarah, I work twelve-hour days. I come home exhausted. And now you're interrogating me over paperwork?”
“I asked one question.”
“You've been acting strange all week.”
I folded the papers.
“Maybe we should talk about that.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Fear.
Then irritation.
“Fine. Let's talk.”
I pulled out a chair.
He didn't sit.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about Northwood?”
He looked toward the window.
“I told you. It's an investment.”
“And Melissa?”
His head turned sharply.
“What about Melissa?”
I watched him.
“The school receptionist.”
He became very still.
“She's helped with Oliver's paperwork.”
“Anything else?”
He took a step closer.
“Sarah, what exactly are you accusing me of?”
I thought about the midnight photograph.
The messages.
The birthday box.
The forged signature.
I wanted to lay everything on the table.
Instead, I said, “I'm asking whether there are decisions about our family I haven't been included in.”
Daniel exhaled.
“I'm trying to make things better.”
“For whom?”
He didn't answer.
Then his voice softened.
“You've been so busy lately. Always working. Always tired.”
I stared at him.
“You're blaming my job?”
“I'm saying we've grown apart.”
“Then why didn't you say that months ago?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
For a moment, I thought he might finally tell me.
But he looked at the paperwork again.
“You wouldn't understand the pressure I'm under.”
“Then explain it.”
He rubbed his face.
“Peter and I have had some problems with a project.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Cash flow.”
“How serious?”
“I'm handling it.”
“Using our house?”
Daniel froze.
I saw the instant he realized I knew more than he'd expected.
“Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“Sarah—”
“Is it true?”
He pulled out the chair and sat heavily.
“We've got a financing deadline.”
My chest tightened.
“How much?”
He stared at the table.
“Enough.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“About two hundred thousand.”
I looked at him.
“You applied for a loan of almost three hundred thousand dollars.”
He lifted his head.
“Where did you get that number?”
I didn't answer.
His face darkened.
“Melissa.”
There it was.
Not surprise that I knew her.
Not denial.
Just anger that she might have told me something.
“She showed you paperwork,” he said.
I remained silent.
Daniel stood abruptly.
“That was confidential.”
I almost laughed.
“Confidential from your wife?”
“You don't understand what's happening.”
“Then tell me.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Finally, his shoulders slumped.
“Peter and I guaranteed payments on a development contract. The contractor failed. There are penalties. If we can't refinance, we could lose our investment.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“Because you would have said no.”
I felt the words like a slap.
He continued.
“And I couldn't let everything collapse.”
I studied him.
“Everything?”
He looked away.
That single movement told me he was still hiding something.
“Daniel, what happens Friday?”
His expression changed.
“Who mentioned Friday?”
“Answer me.”
He pushed his chair back.
“Nothing happens Friday if I can get the paperwork fixed.”
“And if you can't?”
He stared at me.
Then he said something I would remember for years.
“If I can't, Peter says he'll tell them who actually authorized the first transfer.”
I went cold.
“Who?”
May you like
Daniel looked directly at me.
“You.”
