Chapter 9
Right at the bottom was the forged signature. A clumsy, stiff rendition of my handwriting, witnessed by Vanessa’s fraudulent notary.
I held the documents up so both of them could see them clearly.
“These won’t be needing a flight to Scottsdale,” I said.
I tucked the papers under my arm, zipped the briefcase back up, and dropped it back onto the floor at Brian’s feet.
The boarding chime for Flight 1142 rang through the concourse overhead.
“Final boarding call for American Airlines Flight 1142 to Phoenix-Scottsdale. Gate B28. All ticketed passengers must be on board at this time. Final boarding call.”
Vanessa looked toward the gate, then looked down at her carry-on suitcase. Her face was a mask of ruined pride and cold terror. She didn't look at Brian again. Without saying another word, she turned on her designer heels and began marching rapidly away—not toward Gate B28, but toward the terminal exits, pulling her phone from her purse and frantically typing, already trying to find a criminal defense lawyer before the court orders hit the evening news.
Brian didn't even watch her leave. He remained frozen before me, his shoulders slumped, his chest hollowed out, staring at the floor between our shoes.
“What am I supposed to do?” he croaked, looking up at me with wet, reddened eyes. “Elena... what am I supposed to do now?”
“I’d suggest calling a very good attorney,” I said calmly. “Though from what Arthur tells me, you’ll probably have to settle for a public defender once the forensic accounting team tallies the restitution balance.”
I took two steps past him, then paused, turning my head back over my shoulder.
“Oh, and Brian?”
He looked up, a faint, pathetic spark of hope flickering in his eyes for a split second.
“The locks on the house were changed at two o'clock this afternoon,” I told him with a serene, unbreakable smile. “Your clothes have been packed into four cardboard boxes from Home Depot. They’re sitting on the curb outside the front gate. If you aren't there to pick them up before the sanitation truck arrives tomorrow morning, I’m sure someone in the neighborhood will find a good use for those custom Italian shirts.”
I didn't wait for his response.
I turned and walked away down the wide, sunlit concourse of Denver International Airport. My stride was long, confident, and light, the heels of my boots clicking rhythmically against the polished terrazzo floor.