Chapter 5 - THE DRAWING ON THE WINDOW
Callum didn't answer.
Brenda did.
“It was nothing.”
I turned toward her.
“Who made it?”
“Nora—”
“Who?”
Hannah stepped backward.
“Mom.”
Brenda's expression changed.
She knew there was no way out anymore.
“It's from the neighbor's granddaughter.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The drawing was clearly taped inside the upstairs window.
Not outside.
Inside my house.
And the handwriting was unmistakably childish.
I zoomed in.
The yellow house had a purple flower beside it.
A crooked blue rectangle sat beneath the window.
I recognized that style.
I had seen it before.
On birthday cards.
On refrigerator magnets.
In the margins of notebooks.
It was my niece, Lily.
Hannah's daughter.
“Why would Lily write, ‘Don't let Mom in’?”
Hannah started crying.
Brenda closed her eyes.
Callum whispered, “Because she thought you were coming home.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
He didn't answer.
I walked to the window.
The drawing in the photograph was dated.
Six weeks earlier.
I turned around.
“You knew I might come home early.”
Callum nodded.
“We received notice that your assignment could end early.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“We weren't sure.”
“You knew enough to prepare this entire house.”
He looked ashamed.
“We thought we had more time.”
That phrase again.
More time.
Everyone had been living as though my absence was an opportunity.
I picked up the property documents.
“Who arranged the appraisal?”
Callum shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I looked at Brenda.
She said nothing.
Then Hannah spoke.
“Gretchen.”
My head snapped toward her.
“Where is Gretchen?”
“She went to Miami with them.”
“Why?”
“To meet the investor.”
“What investor?”
Hannah hesitated.
“The person who was going to finance the salon.”
I looked at the hotel receipt.
“So the Miami trip wasn't a vacation.”
“No.”
“Who paid for it?”
Hannah looked down.
“Callum.”
I closed my eyes.
More money.
More secrets.
More decisions made with resources that weren't theirs.
Then I remembered something.
“Where is my grandmother's watch now?”
Callum stood.
“I got it back.”
My eyes narrowed.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where is it?”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket.
Then stopped.
“I left it in the car.”
“Go get it.”
He hesitated.
“Now.”
He walked toward the garage.
I followed.
The old sedan sat beneath the fluorescent light.
Callum opened the glove compartment.
Empty.
He searched the center console.
Nothing.
Then the trunk.
Nothing.
His breathing became faster.
“It was here.”
I stared at him.
“You said you got it back.”
“I did.”
“From whom?”
“The lender.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Where did you put it?”
“I put it in the car.”
I looked around.
There was nothing.
Then Hannah noticed something beneath the passenger seat.
She reached down.
A small velvet pouch.
Callum froze.
I opened it.
The watch was inside.
I lifted it carefully.
The leather strap was torn.
And attached to it was a small paper tag.
VALUATION HOLD — PROPERTY SECURITY.
I looked at Callum.
“You told me it wasn't collateral anymore.”
“It wasn't.”
“Then why is this attached?”
He didn't answer.
I turned the watch over.
There was something taped beneath the back cover.
A tiny folded piece of paper.
I opened it.
It contained a handwritten number.
$240,000.
And beneath it:
HOUSE VALUE.
I looked at Callum.
“What did you sign?”
He looked at the floor.
“Nothing final.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I signed an application.”
“With my house as collateral.”
“Yes.”
“Using my watch.”
“Yes.”
“Without my permission.”
“Yes.”
I held the watch in my palm.
My grandmother had once worn it while holding my hand across the street.
Now my husband had carried it into a room full of strangers and placed a price beside my home.
Something inside me broke.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Like ice beneath a boot.
Then I noticed another mark on the paper.
A signature.
I stared at it.
My name.
Nora Lawson.
I knew my own handwriting.
I knew the way I crossed the N.
The way the final “a” curved upward.
This looked almost identical.
Almost.
But not quite.
I looked at Callum.
“I didn't sign this.”
His face went white.
“I know.”
“Then who did?”
“I don't know.”
“Someone signed my name.”
He shook his head.
“It was supposed to be a preliminary form.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
He looked terrified.
“I never meant for anyone to forge your signature.”
I stopped.
There it was.
The sentence that changed everything.
“You knew?”
He closed his eyes.
“I knew someone had done it.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“Callum.”
He looked at me.
“I think Gretchen did.”
I stared at him.
Then my phone buzzed.
A new email had arrived.
From the financial institution.
The subject line read:
SIGNATURE VERIFICATION REQUIRED — NORA LAWSON.
I opened it.
The first sentence was simple.
We have reason to believe your signature was submitted without authorization.
May you like
Then came the sentence that made my blood run cold.
Please confirm whether you personally authorized the $240,000 application.
