Page 32 of Sweet Ruin
Then I export.
The little bar creeps across the screen. It takes its sweet time doing so, however. I’m left to sit there aimlessly with my chin in my hand and ponder about how the best evidence I have of the worst crime in the stack is a silly little piece nobody will believe.
As the progress bar crawls, I go make myself useful by sorting the mail.
There’s a stack of it on the desk that’s been growing since the holiday rush ate my life: vendor statements, a snowman card from the flour supplier, a health-department renewal.
And more. Junk. A supplier catalog. Junk. Insurance. Junk. The water bill. Junk. A menu from the pizza place two blocks over. Junk.
I’m three-quarters down when my hands stop.
A white envelope with a business window. Nothing dramatic about it whatsoever.
Except for one teeny-tiny little word that catches my attention.
DELILAH A. DORSEY...
GUARANTOR
I rip it open and cut my thumb in the process, so that when I pull out the contents, I leave a smear of red across the top corner.
It’s four pages, stapled together.
The first page has letterhead across the top.
V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC
My breath goes solid in my throat.
“‘Year-end statement of obligation,’“ I read out, “‘for the account of Delilah Dorsey, guarantor.’“
Here’s what my own mail informs me about my own life.
The premises at 4412 Fourth Avenue, which are my building and my ovens and my name over the door, are pledged as collateral.
They are pledged against a balance of four million dollars, borrowed by Connor Boyd.
The guarantor signature is dated the eighth of October, this year.
The guarantor—at least as far as this lender believes—is me.
And on the 15th of January, V Haven Holdings, LLC, intends to enforce against the collateral.
Translated into plain English:
My husband took out a loan that he couldn’t repay.
So now, in three short weeks, the people whose money he stole are coming to claim all that’s left.
My bakery.
Merry Christmas to me.
7
DELILAH
What finally moves me is my phone lighting up on the desk.
