Ruthie Spread Six Royalty Statements Across My Kitchen Table Before Breakfast

"An owner of what?" Ruthie asked.

I read the form again. Chike had signed a box meant for the owner of my pattern rights.

"He owns half our good plates," I said. "He never drew a pattern."

Each statement covered three months. Each showed $24,000 in licensing income. Across eighteen months, my designs had earned $144,000.

I checked the totals twice. Then I checked the pattern names.

Porch Steps. Rain Barrel. County Line Stars.

I remembered cutting each paper piece. I remembered Chike bringing home cheap thread and telling me to stretch it.

Ruthie drew three columns on a yellow pad.

"Earned. Held. Sent. We need all three."

The publisher had held $28,800 under my reserve agreement. Added to the earlier $9,600 balance, my untouched reserve stood at $38,400.

The other $115,200 had gone to Crescent Relief Works.

"That's a lot of thread," Ruthie said.

My kitchen clock clicked through a whole minute before I could answer.

"He told me the company was a charity. Sewing machines for families after floods."

"An LLC can do good work. The letters don't prove charity status. Let's see what his does."

We found the company in the state's business records. Chike was its only listed manager. Its mailing address was a rented box on the other side of Jackson.

There was no mention of sewing machines.

"Don't go from missing information to a conclusion," Ruthie said. "Leave a blank until we can fill it."

She wrote one word under the company name.

Explain.

I liked that better than thief. Explain required an answer.

The publisher's finance director called at ten. Her name was Mara Bell, and she sounded as if she had shut her office door.

"Our file includes an amendment approving the new payee," she said.

"Please send it."

"Your husband said you had stopped handling contract details."

"Please send the amendment."

An email arrived while we were still on the phone.

The amendment carried a picture of my signature. The dot over the second i sat so close to the next letter that they touched.

I pulled my original contract from its sleeve.

The same dot touched the same letter.

"It looks copied," I said. "I did not sign this amendment. Did anyone call my original number?"

Mara was silent.

"I need to review our records."

"Please keep those records. All emails and payment records, too."

After the call, Ruthie pointed to the signature.

"Looks copied isn't the same as proved copied. Save the original email. Don't just print the picture."

We made paper copies and saved the attachments without changing their names. I put a spare copy on a small drive with my pattern backups.

Then I called a lawyer whose office handled both family and property disputes.

She offered an appointment for Tuesday. I took it.

Chike came downstairs near noon, dressed for a Sunday lunch nobody had invited me to.

"You have company early," he said.

"We are balancing accounts."

He looked at the green tin. His face stayed still, but his hand closed around his car key.

"Those old papers won't tell you what running a business costs."

"What did Crescent Relief Works spend $115,200 on?"

He glanced at Ruthie.

"Family matters should stay in the family."

"You used a microphone," she said.

He turned back to me.

"That was revenue. There were expenses. I managed the risk."

"Send me the ledger."

"You won't understand it."

"Then include notes."

He put his key into his pocket and left without lunch.

I was shaking afterward. I hated that my body still heard his sharp voice as an order.

Ruthie slid a plate toward me.

"Eat this egg. Being right takes breakfast."

We matched my direct-sale receipts to supplies. Those sales had covered $19,400 in business costs during the same eighteen months. Thread accounted for $184.

The tiny amount made me laugh once. Then I cried into a dish towel.

I had made those supply entries myself, one receipt at a time. He had counted on me forgetting that small work when he showed me his larger, cleaner columns.

Ruthie stayed until my breathing settled.

In the afternoon, I changed my email password and asked the publisher to speak only with me about my contracts. Mara confirmed a stop on outgoing payments while they reviewed the file.

The next morning, another statement arrived. It came by mail from Briar Ledger Lending, addressed to both of us.

I opened it because my name was on the envelope.

The balance was $86,000.

Under Collateral, it listed our street address, the brick house we had finished paying for eleven years earlier.

Under Borrowers, it listed Chike and me.

Attached was a notice that the first payment was thirty days late.