Paying three hundred thousand dollars of debt before being ordered out of the house
Marcus met me at a diner two blocks from the courthouse at four o’clock. The vinyl booth was patched with gray tape, and the smell of fried onions was thick in the air. He ordered a slice of apple pie and did not touch it, instead rotating his gold signet ring around his pinky finger.
“The bank accepted the eighty thousand dollar guarantee,” he said, his voice rising with that rapid, enthusiastic corporate energy. “We bought ourselves sixty days of breathing room, Clare. It is a massive win.”
“I went by the county clerk office today, Marcus,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the laminate table.
His hand stopped moving on his ring. “What were you doing there?”
“Looking at our property record,” I said. “There was a filing on October fourteenth. A transfer of interest.”
Marcus laughed, the sound loud and sudden against the low murmur of the diner. He reached across the table and patted my wrist, his hand warm and dry.
“Everything I do with the house is just to protect us from the creditors, Clare,” he said. “The lawyers suggested we restructure the asset holding so the bank cannot touch our primary residence if the business line defaults.”
