The New Vendor Packet Named My Wife as Its Owner

June warned me that two matching signatures weren't a full expert opinion.

"Keep the original receipt safe," she said. "We'll ask for the source files and have someone qualified compare them."

I liked that she refused to race ahead of what we could prove. Celia had spent years making her certainty feel like evidence. I had begun to confuse the two.

At noon Thursday, the trust's lawyer sent June the vendor packet used to set up Switchyard.

Mara had approved sharing it as part of the disputed contract file. She wanted to know who would build her exhibit and where her donors' money was going.

I sat beside Noreen as she opened the ownership page.

Owen Pike: twenty percent.

Celia Brant: eighty percent. Managing member.

The form was signed eight weeks earlier.

For a moment I could hear the traffic outside Noreen's window but couldn't see it. I had been relieved when Owen came around. I thought he might help Celia stop working late.

"She told me it was his company," I said.

"He did own part," Noreen said. "A small truth makes a useful handle on a large lie."

There was more. The packet listed Switchyard's production capacity as four workstations, one panel saw, two cutting tables, and a finishing room.

It included photographs.

Our shop. Our saw. My scarred bench under the north window.

In one picture, a tiny white door stood open in its frame. My hands were in the shot. My face had been cropped out.

"They were selling our capacity," I said.

"And leaving its bills behind," Noreen replied.

The packet claimed Switchyard leased the space and equipment. The attached lease bore only Celia's signature for our studio. June marked it for review under the same limits in our operating agreement.

I thought that was the worst page.

Then Noreen found a travel cost schedule included to justify Switchyard's proposed management fee. Someone had uploaded the full booking receipts with it.

There were two guests, one room, and three weekends in a lakeside cabin outside Tulsa. The first weekend had been our anniversary. Celia had told me she was at a budgeting retreat.

Owen had signed the guest sheet. Celia's business email had received the confirmation.

"That doesn't prove an affair," Noreen said quietly.

"I know."

She pushed the tea toward me and let me sit.

I called Celia from the parking lot. June had told me not to discuss a settlement without her. I wasn't asking for one.

"How long were you with Owen?"

Silence.

"We have the ownership page and the cabin receipts," I said.

"You had somebody dig through my life?"

"It was in the packet you sent our client."

She breathed out sharply.

"Since February," she said. "I was going to tell you after the business was settled."

I had expected denial. The answer left me with nowhere to put the next question.

"Was taking my work part of settling it?"

"You would have kept doing the same thing forever. I wanted a company that could grow."

"You photographed my hands and cut off my face."

"Don't make that into something."

I watched a brown leaf skate across the hood of my truck.

"It was something," I said, and hung up.

I made a dated note of the call for June. I didn't post it. I didn't send the cabin receipts to anyone's family. The affair hurt, but it couldn't be allowed to cover the missing money.

Back inside, Noreen put two columns on a page: what we knew, what we still needed.

We knew three clients had paid Switchyard. We knew Celia controlled it. We still needed its bank records, its expenses, and proof of how the signature reached the false consent.

"And we need you to eat," she said.

"Is that in your engagement letter?"

"Under preventing costly stupidity. Small print."

I ate half a sandwich. Then I called our assistants, Tessa and Ben, and told them their unpaid wages were on the debt list we were working to verify. I promised an update Friday. I couldn't promise money I didn't have.

At four, June called. The judge had set our urgent hearing for Friday at nine. Celia and Owen would receive notice that afternoon.

At five, Celia sent a new email.

An equipment dealer had offered $9,500 for our saw, cutting tables, and finishing gear. Pickup was set for Friday afternoon unless I signed the surrender papers by noon.

She copied Owen.

He replied to both of us: You can keep your little doors. The rest has to go.