The Escrow Copy Showed Which Signature Julian Had Needed Most

Julian was scraping a pan when I asked him about my retirement.

"What retirement?"

I laid the printed Cedar Basin notice beside him. The rental had a small printer for ski passes. It had become the most useful thing in the house.

He dried his hands before he picked it up.

"That's a billing notice."

"It says I stopped taking clients."

"We discussed stepping back."

"We discussed buying a better chair."

He looked toward the stairs, as though someone might come down and help him.

"Mara handles templates. Maybe she picked the wrong one."

"Is that my signature?"

"It's the one you use."

"That wasn't what I asked."

His face changed. He was no longer trying to sound gentle.

"You gave me permission to manage billing. Don't act helpless now because it suits you."

I took the paper back.

Selma had told me not to turn a kitchen fight into my only record. I wrote down the time and what he had said. Then I sent her the notice and the full email from the bookkeeper.

By noon, the plow had made one pass. It left a wall of hard snow across the driveway. Julian looked outside, then at his car keys, then back outside.

We were still going nowhere.

My father called while I stood near the fogged glass.

"I found another box," he said. "Your old field books."

"Those aren't needed yet."

"You wrote dates on everything. Even sandwiches."

"That sandwich was a flow gauge reading."

He laughed, then went quiet.

"He came with me to buy your first desk. I thought that meant something."

"It meant he came to buy a desk."

"I should have seen."

I pressed my fingertip against the window. A short clear channel appeared in the mist.

"You taught me to check the level twice. I'm doing that now."

Dad had grown up in a Greek American household where feeding someone often stood in for saying sorry. He asked whether I had eaten.

"Toast," I said.

"Put an egg on it."

"Is that your professional advice?"

"Thirty-eight years in the field. Nobody reads a grade stake well on an empty stomach."

I made an egg after we hung up. It was the first thing I had cooked that week without asking Julian what he wanted.

That afternoon, the escrow office sent its certified package to Selma and me. It included the original master license, the approved reseller list, dated deposits, and the later Talus agreement.

The core library carried my maiden name and a deposit date eleven months before my wedding.

I remembered carrying that first check to the bank. It had been for $2,600. I had bought Dad dinner and a new pair of boots.

Julian had called it hobby money.

Selma called at three.

"Read paragraph twelve."

I found it.

"Each reseller shall provide a complete quarterly statement of gross subscription receipts, including receipts collected by an agent or related entity."

"And the next sentence," she said.

"The licensor may inspect supporting records through an independent accountant on ten business days' notice."

The license also shifted reasonable audit costs to a reseller if an underpayment crossed five percent. A material breach had a thirty-day cure period after written notice.

"Talus signed this?"

"Its manager signed it," Selma said. "Your husband. This is why we preserve full documents, not just the page that looks exciting."

I read the signature date.

It was the same day Julian brought home flowers because a supposed client loss had made me cry.

For a moment I could smell those flowers. Their sweet water had gone sour in the vase before I threw them out.

"Daphne?"

"I'm here."

"I can send an audit demand. We need an accountant, and you need advice on the marriage too. I don't handle family cases."

She referred me to a separate lawyer in Los Angeles. I booked that call for the next morning.

Then I approved the audit demand.

Julian received it before dinner.

"You can't audit me."

"The demand is to Talus."

"That's an admin company."

"Then its books should be simple."

He pushed his chair back.

"Do you have any idea what I did to keep these customers? Calls. Lunches. Weekends. You sat with a screen."

"Then your statements can show what you earned."

"You want to destroy our savings to prove you can read a contract?"

I thought of the $86,400 he had already claimed as his.

"I want the records."

He stared at me for a long time.

Then his phone buzzed, and he left the room.

At eight, my laptop gave a soft chime. The login for my customer dashboard no longer worked.

A message from Mara followed.

"All access has been suspended pending ownership review. Any contact with our clients will be treated as interference."

Attached was a demand that I hand over the only current master copy of my models by noon.