Travis Brought A Dollar Offer To Our First Court Hearing

I showed Nessa the photograph before I answered him.

"Save the message with its date," she said. "Don't trade your rights for access to your tools."

She sent his lawyer a written request that evening. Travis had found a lawyer quickly. He had also found money for the fee, though he had left me twenty dollars for gas.

At Mom's house, I slept on a narrow bed beneath a shelf of sewing parts. In the morning, my tool bag's broken latch was fixed. She had used a strip of brass from an old door plate.

Beside it sat a bowl of rice and a fried egg.

"You can eat while you're angry," she said.

"I'm scared."

She pushed the bowl closer.

"That too."

Nessa filed for divorce and asked for an early hearing about the missing money and threatened tools. We gave her copies of the bank balances I had saved, the eight statements, and Travis's message.

She also sent Rillmere a notice disputing the changed payment instructions and asking them to preserve the full license file.

"Does filing mean he'll stop?" I asked.

"It means there will be rules he can't claim he didn't know."

The hearing came four days later, in a Sedgwick County courtroom. My boots squeaked on the floor. Travis stood when I entered, as if we were at a restaurant.

"You look tired, sweetheart."

Nessa moved a chair between us.

His lawyer, Owen Pike, offered a proposed agreement before the judge came in. For one dollar, I would confirm that Travis's company owned the license income and that all past payments had been proper.

In return, Travis would let me collect my tools.

I read the page twice. My mouth tasted like old pennies.

"Those tools were mine before we married," I said.

"Then this makes everything simple," Travis said.

I slid the page to Nessa without signing.

At the hearing, he spoke in the voice he used with older customers.

"I moved our savings because Linh gets carried away with projects. I was trying to protect our household."

The judge looked at him over her glasses.

"Where is the money now?"

"In a business reserve."

"Which business?"

"West Sill Equipment."

Nessa placed the newest royalty statement before the judge.

"The same business received $156,480 in licensing payments over eight quarters. My client disputes the instruction that sent them there."

Travis turned toward me. For a moment, his helpful face disappeared.

"Where did you get that?"

Nessa answered before I could.

"Under her original contract."

The judge did not decide who owned every dollar that morning. She ordered financial disclosures, barred unusual transfers by either of us, and directed Travis to preserve the tools and business records. Both lawyers would arrange a time for me to collect my work property.

The money questions would return with evidence.

Outside, Travis caught up near the elevator.

"You made me look like a thief."

"You told the judge where the money went," I said.

"We could fix this at home."

"Send anything you want me to read to Nessa."

That afternoon, his lawyer confirmed a collection time. Mom borrowed a small trailer. Nessa's assistant came to make an inventory, and Travis stayed inside the house as agreed.

My bench had been pushed against the garage wall. The drawers were taped shut.

We listed the tuning levers, mutes, key weights, gauges, and spare action parts. I photographed each open drawer. A piano technician could lose a week of work because one small gauge had gone missing.

My first humidity-control prototype sat in a plastic tub.

Travis opened the house door when I picked it up.

"That's company property."

The assistant checked our list.

"Your lawyer agreed to its release. Call him if you have a concern."

He closed the door.

Mom tightened a loose leg on my bench before we loaded it. I watched her turn the wrench in short, steady pulls.

"I should have looked sooner," I said.

"Yes," she said.

That hurt, but she was not finished.

"Now you have. Help me lift."

We set up a work corner in her enclosed back porch. It was small, cold near the windows, and mine to use without asking.

Two days later, the bank answered Nessa's preservation request. They would respond to proper court process. An employee also agreed to speak about the stamp on the document I had supplied.

I reached Nessa's office early for that meeting.

A woman in a gray coat stood by the door, holding a folder against her chest.

"I'm Mara Holt," she said. "I remember the man who brought in that page."