Felix Found Two Signatures That Could Not Belong Together

Felix's office was above a tax shop near Broad Street. I climbed the stairs with my blue binder tucked inside a clean pillowcase because rain had started again.

His desk held three cold cups, a cracked stapler, and paper stacked in slopes.

"Pick any chair that isn't holding a year," he said.

Felix Duarte was forty-seven, a Portuguese American royalty accountant with thick brows and a shirt pocket full of pens. A cuff button hung by a thread. He noticed me looking at it.

"The button adds up," he said. "It can wait."

I told him about the divorce and the sale.

"Gideon advises us," I said. "His company is also the buyer."

"Did he disclose that before today?"

"He said he knew people with money."

Felix pulled a fresh pad from under a takeout menu.

"We'll start with the money you already earned."

He had prepared our personal returns for years. Mai had sent him annual studio summaries. He had warned us that a tax return was no audit of the books beneath it.

"I should have asked sooner," I said.

"You asked today. Give me the contract."

I opened the binder.

He read the license schedule and the escrow terms without speaking. Then he turned his pad sideways and made columns.

"This escrow firm paid according to instructions from both rights owner and agent. You are the rights owner. You can request your own records."

He helped me write the request. I sent my identification and the agreement through the firm's secure page. I asked for statements, payment records, and every change of banking details for the past eighteen months.

"Don't accuse anyone in the request," Felix said. "Let the records answer first."

While we waited, he opened the manufacturer statements in my binder.

I had kept them for yard counts. When a customer asked why a chair repeat looked different from a sample, I needed to know which print run they had used.

Mai had kept the payment pages in the office.

Felix tapped a minimum guarantee on one contract.

"This one alone was forty thousand dollars."

"She said returns ate it."

"Then there will be return records."

He did not raise his voice. He simply left an empty space in a column labeled Evidence.

The escrow firm called the next morning. A woman named Ellen Shaw checked my identity and asked if I had access to an account ending in 6041.

"No," I said.

"It's the destination on your amended instruction."

Felix put his pen down.

"Please send the instruction," I said.

It arrived through the secure page with eighteen monthly statements.

There had been $312,480 in net royalty payments available for distribution. That was after the contract fees and recorded adjustments.

Our regular studio account had received $18,600.

The other $293,880 had gone elsewhere.

I read the second figure three times. Felix checked it twice using different columns.

Downstairs, a bus sighed at the curb. Someone laughed outside the tax shop. I could hear those ordinary sounds clearly, but I could not remember how much cash was in my wallet. The number on his pad seemed larger than the room.

"This isn't the final audit," he said. "But that's the gap."

The account change form bore Mai's signature and a version of mine.

It was a good version if you knew my name but had never watched me write it.

"I didn't sign that."

Felix placed it beside the original instruction.

On the real page, my first name leaned right. The last stroke of Lor stopped short because I always lifted the pen before finishing the curl.

The new signature had a full curl. It looked like a name Mai had practiced on gift cards.

"Difference isn't proof by itself," Felix said. "We'll need the originals, the submission records, and someone qualified to compare them."

He turned back to the bank information.

"This destination says MX Pattern Services. Is that a studio account?"

"Not one I've seen."

He checked the business record attached to the escrow firm's verification file. Mai was its only owner.

I sat down hard enough to shake a stack of paper.

For years she had told me I was lucky not to worry about figures. I had heard that as care. Now I could see how useful it had been to her.

"Don't call her yet," Felix said.

"I wasn't going to."

He looked up.

"Good. Get a divorce lawyer today. Ask about preserving the money and the studio records. I'll keep working within what you can authorize. Anything beyond that goes through counsel."

Ellen sent one more message before lunch. A recent request was attached to the account history.

It asked the escrow firm to transfer all twelve licenses to Vale Room LLC after Friday's sale.

My supposed signature was already on it.