Chapter 2 - The Signature That Wasn’t MineArthur wanted me at his house immediately.
I didn’t go.
Not yet.
Instead, I remained across from the Blackstone Hotel for another forty-seven minutes.
Anger wanted me to storm through those revolving doors.
Common sense kept me inside the truck.
If Eric and Lauren believed I knew only about basketball, they would keep making mistakes.
And right then, mistakes were the most valuable thing they could give me.
At 10:06, Eric emerged alone.
He stood beneath the awning making a phone call before handing his keys to the valet.
Lauren remained upstairs.
Interesting.
I photographed Eric entering his Mercedes.
Then I waited another twenty minutes before driving away.
Arthur lived in a quiet neighborhood fifteen miles outside downtown. When I pulled into his driveway, every downstairs light was on.
He opened the door before I knocked.
“Phone.”
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
I handed it over.
Arthur shut it inside a metal lockbox on the kitchen counter.
“You think somebody’s listening?”
“I think somebody copied your signature, accessed restricted company accounts and moved millions without triggering a bank alert.”
Fair point.
His dining-room table had disappeared beneath paperwork.
Bank statements.
Vendor contracts.
Invoices.
Corporate filings.
On top sat a thirty-eight-page purchase agreement.
TRANSFER OF EQUITY INTEREST — DALTON-REEVES LOGISTICS.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Daniel Reeves.
The signature looked perfect.
That bothered me more than if it had looked fake.
My handwriting had a strange break in the R. Whoever created that signature had captured it.
“This was electronically filed three days ago,” Arthur said.
“With whom?”
“A holding company registered in Delaware.”
“Who owns it?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find.”
I flipped through the agreement.
According to the document, I had agreed to sell thirty-eight percent of Dalton-Reeves Logistics for $4.6 million.
Far below market value.
“Where’s the money?”
“Escrow account.”
“Under whose control?”
Arthur looked at me.
“Eric.”
Of course.
I continued reading.
The contract stated that once payment cleared, Eric would hold seventy-six percent of the company.
Absolute control.
“He’s stealing my shares with money he already stole from the company.”
“That appears to be the strategy.”
I laughed once.
It wasn’t because anything was funny.
“You almost have to admire the efficiency.”
Arthur didn’t smile.
“There’s more.”
There was always more.
He opened his laptop and showed me an email.
The sender appeared to be me.
The recipient was our corporate attorney, Martin Hale.
The message said I was considering “stepping away for personal reasons” and wanted Eric to have authority if I became “temporarily incapacitated.”
“Martin believed this?”
“The email came from your personal account.”
My chair scraped backward.
“No.”
Arthur rotated the screen toward me.
My email address.
My photograph.
My signature line.
Everything perfect.
Except I had never written it.
“When?”
“Five weeks ago.”
I remembered five weeks ago.
Lauren and I had spent a weekend at her parents’ lake house.
Saturday evening I had fallen asleep early after drinking two glasses of bourbon.
Lauren had stayed awake.
My laptop had been downstairs.
Unlocked.
A heaviness settled in my stomach.
“What else?”
Arthur opened another folder.
A new life insurance policy.
Five million dollars.
Purchased seven weeks earlier.
Beneficiary: Lauren Reeves.
Contingent beneficiary: Eric Dalton, listed under the company’s key-person arrangement.
I stared at the document.
“Eric?”
Arthur nodded.
“There’s a complicated provision. If Lauren were unable to receive the benefit, part of it could flow through the company.”
“What kind of provision?”
“The kind no ordinary spouse accidentally creates.”
The implication sat between us.
I didn’t want to touch it.
“Maybe this is about money.”
Arthur stared at me.
“It is absolutely about money.”
“I mean only money.”
He understood.
“You’re asking whether they’re planning to hurt you.”
I didn’t answer.
Arthur closed the folder.
“I don’t know.”
That was worse than reassurance.
My mind replayed the past month.
Lauren insisting I schedule a physical.
Eric joking about how hard I worked.
My brakes feeling soft two Tuesdays earlier.
I had blamed the mechanic.
Then another memory surfaced.
Three nights ago, Lauren had handed me a glass of whiskey before bed.
She almost never poured drinks for me.
I had left it untouched because I was answering an email.
The next morning, the glass was gone.
My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Arthur, I need copies.”
“I already made them.”
“Keep the originals somewhere nobody knows.”
“I have.”
“How many people know about this?”
“You and me.”
“Keep it that way.”
He grabbed my arm before I reached the door.
“Daniel, don’t go home.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“If Lauren is involved—”
“She can’t know I know.”
“That doesn’t require sleeping under the same roof.”
“If I suddenly stay at a hotel after tonight, she knows.”
Arthur released my arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“Act normal.”
“Can you?”
I thought about Lauren kissing Eric.
I thought about the forged signature.
The life insurance.
The money.
“Yes.”
I was wrong.
When I arrived home at 12:18 a.m., Lauren was already there.
Her heels rested beside the staircase.
Her red coat hung over a chair.
She sat on the kitchen counter drinking water.
“You’re late,” she said.
“So are you.”
She smiled.
“How was the game?”
“Terrible.”
“Lakers lose?”
I had no idea who had won.
“Yeah.”
She studied me.
For one second, I wondered whether she knew.
Then she walked over and kissed my cheek.
The smell of Eric’s cologne was still on her hair.
I kept my hands at my sides.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You sounded strange earlier.”
“Tired.”
She watched me another second.
Then smiled.
“You work too much.”
“So Eric tells me.”
Her expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
I went upstairs.
At 2:11 a.m., I woke to an empty bed.
Light glowed beneath the bathroom door.
I heard Lauren whispering.
I moved closer.
“…he texted me.”
Pause.
“No. He bought it.”
Another pause.
“I told you. Daniel trusts me.”
My heart hammered.
Then she said something I almost didn’t hear.
“Thursday still works.”
Silence.
“No, Eric. We cannot change the date again.”
I stepped closer.
Lauren’s voice became even quieter.
“Once Thursday happens, none of this matters.”
The floorboard beneath my foot creaked.
The bathroom went silent.
I moved back toward the bed.
The door opened.
Lauren appeared.
“Daniel?”
I pretended to wake.
“Hm?”
She stood in the darkness watching me.
“Were you awake?”
I rubbed my eyes.
“No.”
She remained there for several seconds.
Then she climbed into bed beside me.
Within minutes, her breathing slowed.
I stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
May you like
Thursday was three days away.
And I suddenly had seventy-two hours to discover exactly what my wife and best friend were planning to do to me.
Related Stories
