The Order Book Opened Beside A Stranger's Payment Receipt

I read his message twice before I answered.

My order book. I need it for fittings.

His reply came at once.

Everything In This Marriage Belongs To Both Of Us.

Amara set a bowl of rice beside my elbow.

"Eat before you answer him again."

"He thinks taking the book means I'm leaving."

"Are you?"

I looked at the brown paper bag holding my toothbrush and two shirts.

"Tonight, yes."

She pointed toward her guest room. "Then tonight is settled."

She didn't ask me to decide my whole life while my dinner cooled.

The next morning, I used her old laptop to make a new email account. I changed passwords on the accounts that were mine and turned on extra sign-in checks. I photographed every page of the book, including the blank ones.

Amara watched me reach for a loose receipt.

"Copy first," she said. "Don't rearrange the originals."

The book covered eighteen clients from January through June. Six orders were still open. Beside each amount, Lucian had written a payment date in green ink after sending his online link.

I had also kept notes about seams, paint colors, and clearance around moving parts. Lucian had called those notes clutter. Now they helped me tell one order from another without sending a stranger's private measurements anywhere.

He had been careful about that part. He needed me to know when to start work.

I added the entries twice.

$18,600.

The number made me sit back.

"That's what you recorded," Amara said. "Now we find what they paid."

"I could post his message."

"Would that help a client get her cover?"

I turned the phone facedown.

My first call was to Eli Voss, whose shell carried a pattern based on old dance-hall floors. He sent two receipts for deposits and a final payment.

Both listed Lattice House Design.

"I thought that was your company," he said.

"I thought the links named my studio. I'm checking every order."

"Did you lose my measurements?"

"No. Your paper file is here. Your private details won't go in the money review."

He let out a breath. Until then, I hadn't understood what my question sounded like from his side.

I called each client myself. I asked only for payment receipts and permission to share those receipts with my lawyer or accountant. I sent each person a copy of that request in writing.

One man hung up. Another woman cried because she had saved $1,200 for a cover she wanted at her daughter's wedding.

"I can't ask you to trust an answer I haven't checked," I told her. "I'll update you Friday, even if I still don't have everything."

At lunch, Amara took me to a small legal office near the courthouse. A client of hers had used the lawyer for a business dispute. I paid a $125 consultation fee with cash from my supply tin.

The lawyer, Nora Pike, put three sheets on her desk.

"Money. Business control. Marriage. They're connected, but we need to track each one."

I gave her the book and showed her Lucian's messages.

"Can I get the money back?"

"We need records before I can tell you what's there to recover. And marriage can affect claims to property. Being the artist doesn't settle every financial question."

It wasn't the sweeping promise I wanted. I trusted it more for that.

Nora searched public business records while I waited. Lattice House Design had been formed eight months earlier. Lucian was its listed manager. Its mailing address was a rented box.

"Any staff?" I asked.

"A filing won't tell us that."

She wrote down the business number.

I had signed no agreement with that company. I had received no invoice from it. Still, its name sat on receipt after receipt.

"He used our kitchen address for the supply bills," I said. "Why would he need a box for the money?"

Nora added that question to her pad.

"What was he selling?" Nora asked.

"My covers."

"Only finished covers? Patterns? Licenses?"

I didn't know.

That answer hurt more than the consultation fee.

Nora sent Lucian a letter telling him to preserve messages, payment records, design files, and account history. She asked for copies and for the return of my tools and personal papers.

By evening, eleven clients had sent receipts. Every order number matched my carbon copy. I drew no moth on my scratch sheet. For once, I needed every inch for numbers.

Lucian called at eight.

"You're making us look crooked," he said.

"Send the payment records."

"I built your audience. Before me, you drew on garbage."

"Send the records."

He went quiet, then laughed once.

"You should read what you sign, Talia."

An email arrived while he was still on the line. The attachment was called Design Rights Transfer.

At the bottom, above my printed name, was a signature that looked like mine.