Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE SHE SHOULD NEVER HAVE USED
The board meeting ended at 11:26 a.m.
Delilah remained on the call for exactly eleven seconds after I announced that an independent forensic review would begin immediately.
She said nothing.
Then her square disappeared from the screen.
Raymond Cole tried to explain himself.
I didn’t let him.
Naomi requested authority to preserve internal servers, emails, signature records, contract databases, and Delilah’s corporate devices.
I granted it.
By noon, our outside technology firm had been instructed to create forensic copies before anyone could delete a single file.
Arthur and I were still in my study when my housekeeper, Elena, entered.
“Mrs. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“There’s someone at the gate.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Bellamy.”
I looked at Arthur.
He looked at me.
Delilah had driven from Potomac to Philadelphia in less than three hours.
That told me she was frightened.
“Let her in,” I said.
Arthur rose.
“I’ll stay.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I want to hear what she says when she thinks I’m alone.”
Arthur considered that.
Then he moved into the adjoining library, leaving the door slightly open.
Three minutes later, Delilah came into my study.
She had changed clothes.
Camel coat.
Black trousers.
Dark glasses despite being indoors.
The first thing she noticed was my face.
For perhaps half a second, something resembling guilt crossed hers.
Then it vanished.
“You made me look like a criminal.”
I nearly smiled.
Those were her first words.
Not I’m sorry.
Not Are you hurt?
Not Grandma.
I folded my hands.
“You drove here to tell me that?”
“You ambushed me.”
“At the board meeting you called without informing me.”
“You humiliated me.”
“You hit me.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You mentioned Rebecca.”
“My daughter.”
“My mother.”
“You told her mother she should have died years ago?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
“I said you should have.”
The casual cruelty of the correction left even me momentarily speechless.
Delilah realized too late how terrible it sounded.
She looked away.
“Fine. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That is not an apology.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
She dropped her purse onto a chair.
“I lost my temper.”
“And struck me.”
“You know how to push me.”
“No.”
I leaned back.
“We are not doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making me responsible for what your hand did.”
Her face flushed.
“You spent my entire life controlling me.”
That surprised me enough that I laughed.
“You attended Georgetown because you wanted to.”
“With your money.”
“You chose London.”
“Because you approved it.”
“You chose publishing.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Anything.”
She blinked.
“Anything, Delilah. Medicine. Law. Photography. Teaching. Farming alpacas in Montana if that made you happy.”
She stared at me.
“I never demanded you join my company.”
“You made it impossible not to.”
“How?”
“By being Henrietta Vance.”
There it was again.
My existence itself was apparently an offense.
She began pacing.
“You have no idea what it is like to spend your entire life beneath someone else’s name.”
“You mean the name that opened doors for you?”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Because it did.”
“I worked.”
“So did thousands of people who never received three million dollars from their grandmother.”
She stopped moving.
Something passed through her eyes.
Fear.
Only for a second.
Then I understood.
“Bellamy Literary Group.”
“What about it?”
“Why are you fourteen months behind on repayments?”
Her face became perfectly still.
That was more informative than any answer.
“I don’t handle accounting.”
“You own an agency and don’t handle accounting?”
“I have a CFO.”
“Who?”
“Derek Shaw.”
I knew Derek.
Thirty-four.
Polished.
Fast-talking.
Delilah had insisted on hiring him despite our finance department raising concerns about his short tenure at three previous firms.
“How much cash does the agency currently have?”
“I don’t know the exact number.”
“Approximately.”
“Why?”
“Because my company owns fifty-eight percent.”
“You’ve never cared before.”
“I cared enough to fund it.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You cared enough to make sure you could control me whenever you wanted.”
I stared at her.
“You think contractual ownership is control?”
“Yes.”
“It is called an investment.”
“It was supposed to become mine.”
“When you met the performance requirements.”
“I would have if you hadn’t kept pulling authors back toward Vance.”
That was nonsense.
Authors chose representation independently.
She knew it.
But anger requires very little oxygen when entitlement is supplying the fire.
I changed direction.
“Did you use my electronic signature to approve the third repayment waiver?”
Her reaction was tiny.
Most people would have missed it.
I had spent forty years negotiating publishing contracts.
I did not.
The right side of her mouth tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
“Arthur found the access log.”
Silence.
“The signature was applied from your agency’s network.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves it didn’t come from me.”
“Maybe Kayla was working there.”
“Was she?”
Delilah hesitated.
“I don’t monitor where your assistant works.”
Interesting.
I said nothing.
She became irritated.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“Then you won’t mind the forensic review.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You’re actually investigating me?”
“I’m investigating my signature.”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
“You were my granddaughter when your hand hit my face.”
She stared at me.
Then her expression changed entirely.
Cold.
Calculating.
“I came here to make peace.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“You came here because you’re afraid of what Arthur and Naomi are going to find.”
Her nostrils flared.
“You’ve always thought the worst of me.”
That nearly hurt more than the slap.
Because for most of her life, I had done exactly the opposite.
“I have spent twenty-two years thinking the best of you despite evidence that increasingly suggested I shouldn’t.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
For one dangerous second, the old instinct in me woke up.
Comfort her.
Fix it.
Give her what she needs.
Then I remembered the blood on my blouse.
I remained seated.
She wiped beneath one eye.
“Mom would hate this.”
I felt the blow.
Delilah saw it.
So she continued.
“She would hate what you’re doing to me.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca asked me to take care of you.”
“And now you’re taking everything away.”
“I haven’t taken everything.”
“Yet.”
“No.”
I studied her.
“But I may stop giving you things you never earned.”
Her tears disappeared.
“You think I didn’t earn my career?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
She picked up her purse.
“This company will collapse without me.”
“Then it never deserved to survive.”
She stopped at the door.
“Lucas’s family has connections you don’t understand.”
That was an odd statement.
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
She opened the door.
“Delilah.”
She looked back.
“Was Lucas involved in the loan waiver?”
Her face changed again.
Not fear this time.
Something almost like panic.
Then she said, “Stay away from my husband.”
And left.
Arthur emerged thirty seconds later.
“You heard.”
“All of it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s terrified.”
“Of losing the agency?”
“Possibly.”
He sat across from me.
“But her reaction to Lucas was stronger.”
My phone rang.
Naomi.
I answered.
“Tell me.”
Her voice was clipped.
“The forensic team found an issue.”
“What issue?”
“Multiple documents carrying your electronic approval were executed from outside our system.”
“How many?”
A pause.
“Eleven so far.”
I felt the room shift beneath me.
Arthur leaned closer.
“What kind of documents?”
“Three repayment waivers. Two royalty-advance guarantees. An intercompany services agreement. Four author acquisition packages.”
“And the eleventh?”
Naomi hesitated.
“A personal guaranty.”
I went still.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
“For what?”
“An eight-million-dollar revolving credit facility.”
Even Arthur lost his composure.
He stood.
“What bank?”
I repeated the question.
“Mercer National.”
I had never banked with Mercer National.
“Naomi.”
“Yes?”
“I did not sign an eight-million-dollar personal guaranty.”
“I suspected that.”
“Who received the credit?”
Another pause.
“Bellamy Literary Group.”
Arthur was already reaching for his briefcase.
“When was this executed?”
“Seven months ago.”
“How much has been drawn?”
“Henrietta…”
“Tell me.”
“Seven-point-four million.”
The room became utterly silent.
I looked toward the doorway where Delilah had been standing less than ten minutes earlier.
She had accused me of control.
Of manipulation.
Of stealing her future.
All while someone had apparently used my identity to place millions of dollars of debt behind hers.
“Freeze everything,” I said.
“We already restricted access.”
“No. I mean everything connected to Delilah’s agency that we legally control.”
Arthur raised one finger, warning me not to overstate.
I corrected myself.
“Preserve everything. Move no money without counsel. Lock down records. Contact the bank.”
Naomi took a breath.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“The credit facility required two guarantors.”
“Who was the other?”
“Lucas Bellamy.”
I closed my eyes.
Delilah had told me to stay away from her husband.
Now I understood why.
Maybe Lucas wasn’t simply the uncomfortable man sitting beside her at dinner.
Maybe he knew exactly how much trouble they were in.
Or maybe Delilah was afraid he would tell me.
At 2:16 that afternoon, a courier arrived from Mercer National with copies of the guaranty documents.
Arthur spread them across my dining table.
My signature appeared on page nine.
Beautiful.
Precise.
Almost perfect.
Almost.
I stared at it.
“I didn’t write this.”
Arthur nodded.
“The electronic certification is more important.”
He pointed toward the authentication record.
My name.
My email.
My identification information.
Then an authorization code.
“Arthur.”
“Yes?”
“Where would they have gotten my driver’s license?”
His eyes met mine.
“Your estate file.”
The file Delilah had access to until that morning.
I felt something inside me harden.
Not break.
Harden.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Henrietta Vance?”
“Yes.”
A man spoke.
“My name is Daniel Mercer. I’m senior counsel for Mercer National Bank.”
“I assume this concerns Bellamy Literary Group.”
“It does.”
Arthur motioned for speakerphone.
I put it on.
Daniel continued.
“Mrs. Vance, we have received notice from your attorney disputing your guaranty.”
“I never signed it.”
There was a pause.
“I understand that is your position.”
“It is not a position. It is a fact.”
Another pause.
“Then we have a serious issue.”
“I’m aware.”
“We will cooperate with your counsel. But I need to tell you something before our formal meeting.”
Arthur looked at me sharply.
“What?”
“The Bellamy facility went into technical default yesterday morning.”
My birthday.
“Why?”
“A collateral certificate was due.”
“And?”
“It was not provided.”
“What happens now?”
“The bank can accelerate.”
Seven-point-four million dollars.
I looked at Arthur.
Then Daniel said the sentence that made everything much worse.
“There is also a pending wire request for two-point-one million dollars.”
“Pending where?”
“Scheduled for release tomorrow.”
“Who requested it?”
Paper rustled.
Then Daniel said, “Derek Shaw, Bellamy Literary Group’s CFO.”
I remembered Delilah’s words.
I don’t handle accounting.
Maybe she was telling the truth about one thing.
But then Daniel continued.
“The request was authorized by the agency’s chief executive.”
“Delilah?”
“Yes.”
Arthur wrote one word on his legal pad.
WHERE?
I asked.
“Where is the money going?”
Another pause.
“To an entity called Northstar Media Holdings.”
Arthur immediately began typing.
I had never heard of it.
Then his expression changed.
He rotated his laptop toward me.
Pennsylvania corporate registry.
Northstar Media Holdings LLC.
Registered agent:
Lucas Bellamy.
I stared at the screen.
My granddaughter had slapped me because she believed I was standing between her and an inheritance.
Meanwhile, she and her husband were apparently trying to move millions of borrowed dollars into another company.
And someone had put my name on the debt.
May you like
I thought my problem was an entitled granddaughter.
I was beginning to suspect I had uncovered a theft.
