The Salvage Owner Put My Daughter Into His Bill

I kept my keys in my hand.

“Send anything about the work in writing,” I said.

Dorian smiled at the shop window.

“Your state friend won't buy theater tickets forever.”

“This conversation is over.”

I went inside and locked the door. He stayed on the sidewalk long enough for me to call Elias. Then he drove away.

“Write his exact words while you remember them,” Elias said. “Time, place, anyone who might have heard. We'll take a statement.”

“Did I make this worse for her?”

“He chose to threaten her.”

I wrote that down, too, on a separate piece of paper.

Not evidence. Something I needed to remember.

A local officer came to record the complaint. Elias arrived later with Investigator Mara Chen, who was helping with the theater search request. They checked the shop doors with me and explained whom to call if Dorian returned.

June stayed with a cast friend that night. She chose the place. I did not get to choose her whole life because I had become afraid.

At nine, she called.

“Rhea got an email,” she said. “Kells withdrew his twelve-thousand-dollar sponsorship.”

My stomach dropped.

“Your role?”

“Still mine. Rhea said donors don't cast plays.”

I sat on the floor beside my sample cabinet.

“I'm sorry you have to deal with this.”

“I'm mad,” she said. “That isn't the same as being mad at you.”

The next morning, a courier brought me an envelope from Dorian's company lawyer.

It demanded the return of all samples, records, and scenery by noon Friday. It claimed I had damaged valuable property. The bill attached was for $18,700.

Below that was a copy of an invoice I had never sent.

HAN SCENIC SERVICES. FINISH AND ACCEPTANCE OF CEILING REPLICAS. $38,000.

My name appeared at the bottom in a careful slant.

Someone had copied my signature.

I called the number for a small business lawyer whose card I had kept for years. Her name was Nila Brooks. I asked what a first meeting cost.

“Two hundred fifty dollars,” she said. “Bring the whole envelope.”

I put the fee on my card and drove to her office.

She read without making comforting noises.

“Did you sign this?”

“No.”

“Did you make replicas?”

“I painted scenery. I never agreed to replace a ceiling.”

“Good. Say exactly that. Don't guess about the rest.”

I showed her my actual forms. My signature crossed a printed line. On the false invoice, a bit of that line traveled with my name, floating below empty space.

Nila leaned closer.

“Keep the originals safe.”

She sent a short letter denying the debt and the false signature. She told Dorian's lawyer to preserve company records and direct further claims through her.

It cost me another $350. Quiet revenge, I learned, sometimes began with a card balance.

Elias met me back at the shop. I gave Mara the forged invoice and the courier envelope under a new receipt.

“He wants you to think every door leads back to him,” Elias said.

“Some of them do.”

“Then we count the doors.”

We spent the afternoon counting.

My real invoices totaled $6,480 unpaid. My bank statements showed no $38,000 payment. The false invoice carried a date when I had been teaching a school workshop. I had the attendance sheet, a parking receipt, and pictures sent by the teacher.

Mara asked for copies. She would contact the school herself.

Elias set a cup of tea near my elbow, away from the papers.

“You remembered the cloud,” I said.

“I learn from major offenses.”

For the first time that day, I laughed.

Then I cried, which annoyed me. I turned toward the sink.

“Sorry.”

“You don't owe me dry eyes.”

He stayed in his chair. I was grateful for that. I would have taken a hand if he had offered one, and I did not yet trust what that would mean.

Before leaving, he paused at the door.

“I like talking with you, Sunhee.”

“Even without the stolen plaster?”

“Especially then.”

He looked down once, then back at me.

“While I'm working this case, I need to keep that clear.”

“I can understand a line on a form.”

“I thought you might.”

After he left, I opened my oldest sample drawer. Every envelope had a little landscape on its flap, made from the paint left on that job.

Mountains. Islands. A narrow strip of blue water.

They had looked like a lonely woman's hobby. Now I saw eight years of men signing for what they brought through my door.

My phone lit up with a message from Nila.

KELLS CLAIMS YOU ALTERED YOUR RECORDS. DO YOU HAVE ANY COPIES OUTSIDE YOUR SHOP?