Chapter 4 - THE FINAL AUTHORIZATION
Thursday evening,
Thomas was waiting for me in the kitchen.
He had a bottle of wine open and two glasses on the table.
The house smelled of roast chicken,
one of my favorite meals.
“Hey, Sue,”
he said,
smiling warmly.
“You had a long day.”
“I did,”
I lied,
setting my purse on the counter.
“Claims are piling up.”
He poured me a glass of wine and handed it to me.
“I have something for you,”
he said,
his tone casual,
almost bored.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
“It’s just the final paperwork for the loan,”
he said.
“The one we talked about for the new warehouse.”
“I need your signature to close the deal tomorrow morning.”
I looked at the paper.
It wasn't for a loan.
It was a power of attorney and a deed transfer.
If I signed this,
Thomas would have the legal right to sell the house without my further consent.
He would have the right to empty our remaining joint accounts.
He was handing me my own death warrant.
I felt a chill run down my spine,
but I kept my face blank.
“Oh, let me get my reading glasses,”
I said,
moving toward the living room.
“They’re in my bag.”
I went into the living room,
opened my purse,
and took out a pen.
Not my usual blue pen.
A pen I had bought at the office supply store that afternoon.
The ink was disappearing ink,
the kind used for pranks,
but it looked perfectly real for exactly three hours.
I walked back into the kitchen,
leaned over the table,
and signed my name.
Susan Elizabeth Clark.
The letters were dark and bold.
Thomas watched me,
his eyes tracking the movement of the pen.
When I finished,
he let out a long breath.
“Thanks, Sue,”
he said,
pulling the paper toward him.
“This is going to change everything for us.”
“I know it will,”
I said,
taking a sip of my wine.
We ate dinner in a silence that felt like a thick fog.
Thomas talked about the future,
about how we’d finally be able to travel more once the company was stable.
“Maybe Belize,”
I suggested,
my voice a whisper.
He froze for a split second,
his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Belize?”
he asked.
“Why there?”
“I heard the diving is incredible,”
I said,
smiling at him.
“Just a thought.”
He laughed,
a nervous sound.
“Yeah. Maybe someday.”
That night,
as he slept,
I watched the ink on the paper in his briefcase slowly fade away.
By morning,
May you like
the signature would be gone,
leaving only a blank line and a man who thought he had won.
