Paying three hundred thousand dollars of debt before being ordered out of the house
“We are safe,” Marcus said, touching my shoulder briefly before he walked out of the kitchen. “But only if we trust each other.”
I sat down at the table, the blue folder lying open before me.
The printouts looked different under the dim stove light, the stark columns of numbers suddenly feeling less like absolute proof and more like a puzzle I might have misread. I had spent fifteen years analyzing corporate restructuring, but staring at my husband’s handwriting in the margins of these statements made my own training feel useless.
I sat in the dark kitchen, the printouts scattered across the table, wondering if I had made a terrible mistake.
By nine the next morning, David Vance was sliding a thick manila folder across his mahogany desk on Cary Street.
The office was quiet, save for the dull hum of the radiator in the corner and the occasional rumble of a delivery truck outside on the wet asphalt.
“This came through the Delaware registry three days ago,” David said, his voice slow and deliberate as he settled into his chair.
