Chapter 4 - The Signature I Never Gave
"That request is fraudulent."
My voice sounded unusually calm.
Daniel studied the screen.
"Did you enter your password yesterday?"
"No."
"Did anyone else have access to your computer?"
I thought about the laptop I kept on the small desk in our bedroom.
Preston knew the password.
I'd never hidden it from him.
We were married.
For seventeen years, I'd believed that meant certain things didn't need protecting.
"Preston could access it," I said.
Daniel nodded.
"Then we need the authentication records before drawing conclusions."
Chloe placed a hand on my shoulder.
"We've already preserved the server logs. Nothing has been deleted."
I sat down.
Yesterday's eighty-thousand-dollar approval had been rejected automatically because the lender still required my separate personal guarantee.
The electronic approval alone wasn't enough.
Preston needed my signature on the original paperwork.
Suddenly, I understood why he'd brought the lease home again.
Why he'd demanded that I sign before dinner.
Why he'd become furious when I refused.
He wasn't simply angry that his wife had challenged him.
He was running out of time.
"What was the money for?" I asked.
Daniel opened the lease application.
"A production equipment package."
"Delivered where?"
He scrolled down.
My heart sank.
The delivery address was on West Broad Street.
The same street where Preston had taken Tyler.
The same area where North Creek Meals operated.
"The equipment wasn't going to our kitchen," I said.
"That's what we're investigating," Daniel answered.
Chloe looked as though she hadn't slept.
"I should have pushed harder when I first noticed those invoices."
"You came to me," I reminded her.
"I came to you after fourteen questionable transactions."
"You didn't know they were fraudulent."
She shook her head.
"I knew something was wrong."
For a moment, we sat together without speaking.
Chloe had been my friend since culinary school.
She was the person who'd lent me money when our first refrigerator broke.
She'd worked weekends without pay during our first year.
And she'd helped Tyler learn multiplication by letting him count our muffin orders.
I trusted her.
But now I understood how easily trust could become silence when people were afraid of what the truth might cost.
"We keep checking," I said.
"No more guessing. No more excuses."
Chloe nodded.
At ten that morning, our kitchen supervisor, Rosa Martinez, came into my office.
Rosa had worked for us for eleven years.
She was fifty-eight, practical, and entirely unimpressed by anyone's title.
She placed a clipboard on my desk.
"We have a problem."
"What happened?"
"Preston sent a message to the delivery crew."
She showed me her phone.
The message claimed I had suffered an emotional breakdown and had improperly frozen company funds.
It said Preston was working to restore normal operations.
My hands tightened around the clipboard.
"Did he tell them what happened last night?"
"No."
"Did he mention the disputed invoices?"
"No."
Rosa crossed her arms.
"He told them you weren't making decisions right now."
I stared at the message.
Preston wasn't merely trying to protect himself.
He was trying to remove me from the company I'd spent nearly two decades building.
"Are the drivers worried?" I asked.
"Of course. People have mortgages. Kids in college. Rent."
"I know."
Rosa leaned forward.
"Then stop worrying about what Preston wants everyone to think and tell us what's actually happening."
Her words stung.
Not because they were cruel.
Because she was right.
By lunchtime, Chloe and I had gathered our employees.
I didn't tell them every detail of the audit.
Some facts still needed verification.
But I told them the truth about our financial controls.
Their paychecks were protected.
Our regular customer orders remained active.
No one was being asked to choose sides in a marriage.
And I would personally review our food-safety operations until the investigation was complete.
When I finished, Rosa raised her hand.
"One question."
"Of course."
"Are you coming back to the kitchen?"
I looked at her.
"Yes."
"Good. The chicken doesn't care about your husband's feelings."
Several employees laughed.
It was the first time I'd smiled since the plate shattered.
But the relief didn't last.
At two fifteen, our adult day center director, Mrs. Eleanor Whitcomb, called the office.
I'd known Eleanor for nine years.
She was sixty-seven and ran the center with the fierce determination of someone who believed older people deserved more than reheated food and polite neglect.
"Is everything all right over there?" she asked.
"We've had some internal problems, Eleanor. But your meals will arrive on schedule."
There was a long silence.
"That's strange."
"What is?"
"I received your cancellation letter this morning."
My stomach dropped.
"I didn't send a cancellation letter."
"It has your signature."
I gripped the edge of my desk.
"Can you forward it to me?"
She did.
The letter was dated Monday.
It terminated our contract effective Friday.
And beneath my name was a signature that looked almost perfect.
Almost.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
It recommended a replacement supplier.
North Creek Meals.
Eleanor spoke quietly.
"There's something else you should know."
May you like
"What?"
"Preston came here yesterday and told me you were leaving the business permanently."
