Chapter 2 - THE USB DRIVE SHOWED ME WHY THEY NEEDED ME OUT OF THE APARTMENT BEFORE FRIDAY
Nobody spoke while the USB drive sat inside my palm.
It weighed almost nothing.
Yet the moment Charlotte gave it to me, Gabriel stopped looking like a husband caught in an ugly family argument.
He looked like a man watching evidence change hands.
Genevieve saw it too.
“Give me that.”
She stepped toward me.
I closed my fingers.
“No.”
“This is family correspondence.”
“I am family when you want my signature and an outsider when you want my home.”
Her face tightened.
“Don’t be childish.”
I almost laughed.
My belongings were still sitting on a Montreal sidewalk in the rain.
Someone had shoved my winter coat into a garbage bag.
My credit cards had been blocked.
My number had been blocked.
And my mother-in-law was calling me childish because I would not hand back a drive containing emails about a fake transfer.
I looked at Charlotte.
“Did you copy everything?”
She swallowed.
“Everything I could find.”
“From where?”
“Mom’s laptop.”
Genevieve’s face changed.
Charlotte flinched.
Then stood straighter.
“I know you told me never to touch it.”
“You had no right.”
“And Camille had no right to know you were talking about backdating a property transfer?”
Vivienne stood beside the dining table.
“What do you mean backdating?”
Charlotte looked at her older sister.
“Mom’s lawyer drafted a donation agreement saying Gabriel gave you his interest in the apartment three weeks ago.”
Vivienne went pale.
“He didn’t.”
“I know.”
Antoine slowly closed the flooring catalog in front of him.
He had barely spoken since I arrived.
Now he looked directly at Gabriel.
“You told us the property transfer was already being handled.”
Gabriel rubbed one hand across his mouth.
“I said we were working on options.”
“No,” Vivienne said.
“You said, ‘By the time the wedding invitations go out, the apartment will be yours.’”
Interesting.
Promises always sound different when repeated in front of the person paying for them.
Genevieve pointed toward Charlotte.
“You don’t understand any of this.”
“Then explain the loan.”
Charlotte’s voice shook.
Genevieve froze.
Gabriel whispered:
“Stop.”
Charlotte looked at him.
“No.”
That one word changed her face.
I had always thought of Charlotte as quiet.
Now I wondered how often quiet people were actually storing things.
Observing.
Waiting until the cost of silence finally became larger than the fear of speaking.
I took my laptop from my work bag.
Gabriel moved.
“Camille, you should talk to Jacqueline before you open anything.”
The sentence was almost funny.
“My lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re suddenly worried I’ll act without legal advice?”
His eyes dropped.
I sat at the dining table.
The same table where Vivienne had been choosing curtains for my home.
I inserted the drive.
Charlotte had organized nothing.
There were screenshots.
PDFs.
Email exports.
Photographs of documents.
A folder called VIVIENNE APARTMENT.
Another called GABRIEL LOAN.
And one called:
DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS IS.
I opened the loan folder first.
A private lender.
Laurent Capital Partners.
Principal amount:
$2.8 million Canadian.
Borrower:
GDL Développement Inc.
Gabriel’s development company.
Personal guarantee:
Gabriel Fournier.
I looked at my husband.
“You owe almost three million dollars?”
He closed his eyes.
“It isn’t that simple.”
“Excellent.”
I turned the screen.
“Make it complicated.”
Genevieve stepped between us.
“The money is tied to development projects.”
I looked at her.
“I asked Gabriel.”
Her lips pressed together.
Good.
Gabriel finally sat.
“Two projects ran over budget.”
“How far over?”
“About one point six.”
“And the rest?”
“Carrying costs.”
“Interest.”
“Vendor settlements.”
My stomach tightened.
“Which projects?”
“The Griffintown conversion.”
“And Saint-Dominique.”
I knew both.
Not professionally.
Gabriel had mentioned them over dinner.
Luxury redevelopment.
Old industrial structure in Griffintown converted into condos.
Another mixed-use historic property on Rue Saint-Dominique.
He had told me they were “performing.”
Of course.
“How long have you been in trouble?”
“Eight months.”
Eight.
Not eight days.
Not the week I overheard his mother.
Eight months of dinners.
Mortgage payments.
Sunday lunches.
Plans.
Every time I asked whether work was okay, Gabriel had kissed my forehead and said:
“Busy, but good.”
I looked at the loan documents.
The collateral schedule contained several corporate assets.
Then:
Additional security: beneficial interest, 2468 Rue Clark, Unit 2.
Our apartment.
My home.
I felt my heartbeat slow.
Not panic.
Professional focus.
“How?”
Gabriel looked away.
“Only my interest.”
“That isn’t what the schedule says.”
I zoomed.
The document described the borrower’s indirect and spousal interests in the property, supported by consent.
There was an attachment.
SPOUSAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND CONSENT.
My name.
My address.
My signature.
I stopped breathing.
The signature looked like mine.
Almost.
It had been taken from something real.
Not handwritten from memory.
Scanned.
Lifted.
Reused.
I knew exactly where.
Three years earlier, during restoration, I had signed dozens of contractor authorizations electronically.
My signature on this document had the same tiny upward break on the final “t” caused by the stylus freezing on my old tablet.
I stared at Gabriel.
“You forged my signature.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Genevieve said:
“Camille—”
“Not one word.”
I looked at Gabriel.
“Did you put my signature on this?”
“I didn’t personally create the document.”
A lawyer’s answer.
“You submitted it?”
Silence.
Vivienne sat down.
Antoine whispered something under his breath.
I leaned forward.
“Gabriel.”
He finally looked at me.
“The lender required evidence that you knew.”
“I did not know.”
“I know.”
There it was.
The room disappeared for a moment.
I heard rain against windows.
Cars below.
Somewhere on the sidewalk, water was soaking into the boxes containing our wedding photographs.
“You knew I didn’t know.”
“Yes.”
“And you used my signature anyway.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
He had no answer.
Of course.
“Did they fund the loan?”
“Yes.”
“How much is still outstanding?”
“Two point four.”
My stomach tightened.
“Due when?”
“Friday.”
Three days.
That was why everything had to be “settled tomorrow.”
Not family generosity.
Not Vivienne’s wedding.
Friday.
“What happens Friday?”
Gabriel rubbed both hands across his face.
“The loan converts to default status.”
“And?”
“They can enforce security.”
“Against the corporate assets.”
“Yes.”
“And our apartment?”
He hesitated.
“The consent is challengeable.”
I stared at him.
“Because it’s fake.”
“Yes.”
“Which means they might sue.”
“Yes.”
“And you planned to transfer your interest to Vivienne before default.”
Genevieve finally spoke.
“To preserve it for the family.”
I turned toward her.
There it was.
Fraud wearing the word family.
“If Gabriel transfers property to his sister to put it beyond a creditor after pledging it as security, you think that preserves anything?”
She stiffened.
“The lawyer said—”
“What lawyer?”
Charlotte answered.
“Étienne Marchand.”
I knew the name.
Small private practice.
Commercial transactions.
Genevieve looked furious.
“He said there were ways to document Gabriel’s prior intention to gift the apartment.”
“Prior intention.”
I repeated.
“A backdated agreement.”
“No.”
“A memorialized family agreement.”
I laughed.
My mother-in-law actually believed changing the phrase changed the act.
I opened Charlotte’s email folder.
There it was.
Genevieve to Marchand:
Can we show the donation occurred before Laurent advanced the second tranche? Gabriel has always intended the apartment for Vivienne. Camille is merely obstructing because she never understood family obligations.
Marchand replied:
I will not prepare a document falsely stating an execution date. We can discuss a present transfer if all owners consent and creditor issues are disclosed.
I looked at Genevieve.
“Your own lawyer told you no.”
She looked away.
Charlotte said quietly:
“There are later emails.”
I scrolled.
Genevieve had contacted someone else.
A notary named Paul Desjardins.
He had also refused to proceed without my verified participation.
Then there were messages between Genevieve and Gabriel.
She leaves for site work at seven. Vivienne can move her things Thursday.
If Camille arrives before it’s done, she’ll create a legal problem.
Gabriel replied:
I’ll block cards and phone. She has the Saint-Henri investment anyway. She won’t be homeless.
My hands stopped.
He knew.
I looked up.
“You know about Saint-Henri?”
His face said yes.
“How?”
He hesitated.
“Tax records.”
“You went through my tax records.”
“We’re married.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You searched for somewhere I could go so you could convince yourself throwing me out wasn’t really throwing me out.”
He looked ashamed.
Good.
He should.
Then I saw another email.
Subject:
STRUCTURAL REPORT / SAINT-DOMINIQUE
Attachment:
A report bearing my firm name.
My professional registration number.
My architectural seal.
I froze.
“What is this?”
Gabriel stood.
“Camille.”
“What is this?”
He came toward laptop.
I pulled it away.
Charlotte whispered:
“That was in the folder I didn’t understand.”
I opened the PDF.
Project:
412 Rue Saint-Dominique.
Condition assessment.
It stated the masonry stabilization had been inspected and deemed satisfactory for continued occupancy.
Signed:
Camille Dupont, Architecte
My blood turned cold.
“I never inspected this building.”
Vivienne stared.
Antoine stood.
“What?”
I scrolled.
My seal was there.
Not just signature.
My professional seal.
A scanned image from one of my conservation reports.
I looked at Gabriel.
He had gone completely gray.
“What did you use this for?”
“Camille—”
“What did you use it for?”
His voice dropped.
“The lender wanted confirmation.”
“Of what?”
“That structural work was complete.”
I stood so quickly the chair hit the floor.
“You submitted a false architectural report to a lender.”
“No.”
“It came from the consultant package.”
“With my seal.”
“I didn’t make it.”
“But you knew.”
Silence.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
Everything inside me became still.
Not because of money.
Not apartment.
People.
If 412 Saint-Dominique had structural problems and someone used my name to say it didn’t—
people could be inside that building.
Tenants.
Workers.
Families.
My license.
My responsibility.
I called Louis Beaulieu.
He answered on second ring.
“Camille?”
“Do you know 412 Saint-Dominique?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Old warehouse conversion.”
“Who’s contractor?”
“Beaulieu & Fils was asked to price stabilization last winter.”
His voice changed.
“We walked.”
“Why?”
“The rear masonry wall was moving.”
My blood went cold.
“Was it repaired?”
“Not by us.”
“When?”
“Camille.”
“Answer.”
“Six months ago we told Gabriel’s team they needed a structural engineer before occupancy.”
I closed my eyes.
The report on screen was dated five months ago.
I whispered:
“Is the building occupied?”
Louis was silent.
Then:
“Ground-floor commercial tenants moved in last month.”
I grabbed my coat.
Gabriel stepped toward me.
“Where are you going?”
“To make sure nobody gets killed under my name.”
He caught my arm.
Not hard.
Enough.
I looked down.
He released immediately.
“Camille.”
“Don’t.”
His hands fell.
I turned to Charlotte.
“Email the entire drive to Jacqueline.”
“Now.”
Charlotte nodded.
Genevieve said:
“You are blowing this out of proportion.”
I stared at her.
“Your son used my professional seal on a building I never inspected.”
Her face changed.
Finally.
Maybe even she understood.
I walked toward door.
Vivienne whispered:
“What about the apartment?”
I looked back.
Rain beyond windows.
My furniture in garbage bags.
Her catalogs on my table.
“Right now?”
I said.
“I don’t care about the apartment.”
May you like
Because the folder I had prepared to protect my home had just become evidence that my husband might have put other people’s homes at risk.
And for the first time that day, losing my marriage was no longer the scariest thing in front of me.
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