The Buyer Brought A Signature To The Emergency Hearing

Evan pulled a single page from his bag.

Consent To Assignment And Waiver Of Reserved Rights.

My name sat at the bottom in a shape close enough to hurt.

"March eighteenth," he said. "You approved the transfer."

"I didn't sign this."

"You sign a lot of shop papers."

I kept my hands off the page and called Nadia. She told me to ask for a copy through counsel and end the conversation.

"You have a lawyer now," I told him. "Use one."

For the first time since he'd come into our shop, Evan looked unsure of his next line.

I slept at Ikaika's apartment that night. I'd left the house after Simone said she needed space to think. She kept the house keys; I kept photographs of the rooms and a bag of clothes.

"I could call him," my brother said.

"You could burn the rice."

He turned back to the stove.

We ate from bowls at his small table. He didn't tell me I'd been blind. He put the extra rice in a container for tomorrow.

At the courthouse in Las Vegas, Simone wore a cream jacket. Evan sat two seats away from her beside their lawyer. They had separate folders with matching black tabs.

Nadia carried a plain brown file.

"Don't race them," she told me. "Answer the question you hear."

The judge had our papers and the response their lawyer had filed that morning. The disputed consent was attached to the response.

Their lawyer said I was trying to hold an insolvent workshop hostage over marital hurt.

I stared at the water pitcher.

Nadia stood.

"The proposed buyer offers $6,000 for a library that generated at least $108,000 in payments last year. Those payments went outside the workshop. We ask for time to trace them and determine what can lawfully be sold."

She showed the signed property agreement, then the license riders.

Simone's lawyer said they were old papers.

"Is there a later agreement ending them?" the judge asked.

He offered the consent.

Nadia said I disputed its authenticity. She asked for the original and the complete electronic file, including the message that had sent it.

"We have a scan," he said.

"Where is the original?" the judge asked.

He turned toward Simone.

"We will investigate that."

The judge didn't decide who had lied. She asked about Friday's closing, the bank records, and which business costs needed paying while the dispute continued.

Nadia had brought a proposed order with room for those costs. Their lawyer argued over its reach. The judge narrowed it, set a further hearing, and required a bond before the temporary restraint took effect.

I supplied the $2,000 bond from what remained of my savings.

The order stopped the disputed design sale and barred destruction of relevant records. It also restricted transfers from the identified Harbor Basin account pending review, with a process for approved expenses. A neutral accountant would report on the money.

Nothing in that order fixed my marriage or paid a supplier.

But Friday could pass without my life's work leaving in Evan's bag.

On the courthouse steps, Ikaika handed me the rice he'd packed. I ate it cold with a plastic fork. My hands had stopped shaking enough to open the lid without spilling anything.

Outside, Simone stepped close enough that I could smell her perfume.

"You embarrassed me."

"You told them I signed that page."

"You're tired. You forget things."

Nadia stopped beside us.

"That conversation can happen in a deposition."

Simone put her glasses on and went toward the elevators.

The first bank records arrived the next week through the court process. Harbor Basin belonged only to Simone. Its balance was $91,200.

It had received the $108,000 in royalty payments and an additional $18,600 from Copper Veil. Outgoing personal payments totaled $35,400.

Marta added the columns while I watched.

"That balances," she said.

"What was the eighteen six?"

"The transfer memo says design acquisition advance. We need the agreement behind it."

I looked at the $36,000 consulting invoice again. Simone had charged our shop for arranging the sale of rights I still owned.

That evening, I found the old paper I needed by looking at my strange little signature on the scan. My final stroke had caught on something. A staple, maybe. I remembered swearing at it.

I went to the flat drawer marked Approved Shop Drawings, 2023.

Ikaika held a work light while I lifted a sheet from the stack.

There was my signature, with the same broken stroke. Above it was a hinge layout numbered W-214.

And below it was a date three years before the consent Evan had brought.