Page 70 of Sweet Ruin

“And this,” I say, setting the freezer bag down next to her elbow, “is what I pulled out of my kitchen sink on the 23rd. He was burning documents when I came home. This corner was pressed flat against the side of the basin, so the water never got to it. But it’s proof that he forged my signature.”

Skye looks up at me in shock. “You bagged it?”

I shrug. “I watch a lot of true crime.”

She sets down the stapled pages and picks up the freezer bag by two corners, holding it up toward her window to better catch the light. The bag’s got that letterhead in it. V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC, the first word mostly burned off. PROMISSORY. The undersigned. And the signature over the line marked BORROWER.

Delilah A. Dorsey.

“It’s definitely a forgery, though,” I continue. “That’s not my signature. The loop on the D closes at the wrong angle. And the dash over the i in Delilah goes the wrong way. I go up to the right. Whoever did that went down.”

“Show me yours.”

I write my name for her on the corner of her legal pad. Then I write it again, just to prove my point.

She sets the bag beside the pad and looks at both of them for a long time. Long enough that I hear the deaf secretary out front answer a phone with a screeching, full-volume “LAW OFFICE.”

“Huh,” Skye says.

“Is that a good huh?”

“For you? No.” She taps the bag with the end of her pencil. “It’s a good forgery. Somebody had a real sample in front of them when they did it. But it’s a forgery. I can tell.”

“But can a jury?”

“Juries are fickle. But we can get a good subject matter expert to testify.” She sets the pencil down and raps her fingernails on her desk while she thinks. “I know a few good analysts in the city who do handwriting for a living and don’t embarrass themselves on cross. Any one of them would look at that and your samples and say what you just said, under oath, in front of a judge. I’d bet money on it.”

I’m starting to feel something dangerously close to hope.

“Okay,” I say breathlessly. “What about the pledge? He put up my building. I never signed anything. I never even heard of these people until Christmas Eve.”

“You can’t encumber real property you don’t own,” replies Skye. “So if you’re being honest with me and you never signed, never authorized him to sign, never took a dollar of the money, and never did anything afterward that looks like you approved it—no payments, no correspondence, no cashing anything—then that guaranty is void as to you and their lien on 4412 is a piece of paper somebody wasted a lot of good money to draft.”

“Mrs. Brewer, you’re starting to make me feel optimistic.”

“I’d never go that far. Optimism is dangerous in my profession. But you’re not the most hopeless case I’ve ever seen.” She leans back and looks at me. “Honestly, Ms. Dorsey, most people who walk in here are either empty-handed or full of shit. You brought me a vetted chain of custody. Whatever you do for a living, you’re wasted on it.”

“I bake.”

“Well, I bet you’re damn good at it.”

For the length of one breath, maybe two, I feel like I might be okay.

Then Skye leans forward again, and that silly little feeling goes fluttering out the window.

“Now, let me tell you what being right is gonna cost ya.”

I cringe. “Hit me.”

“When I’m done telling you my fees, you’ll feel like I did.” She starts to count things off on her fingers. “We’re working on one hell of a time crunch here. You said 15th of January, right? Today’s the 28th, so that gives us less than three weeks until they foreclose on your bakery. To stop that, first thing I gotta do is file. Order to show cause, ask the court to stop them from doing anything to the building while we fight about whether they have the right to. If I get in front of a judge and I’m lucky about which one, maybe I get you a temporary restraint. Maybe. That’s the fastest good thing that can happen.”

“That sounds promising.”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s the first hour of a very long day.” She holds up the stapled pages. “Look at what they sent you. This is not a sleazeball ambulance chaser working out of a strip mall. A four-million-dollar note, drafted like this—it just gives me the heebie-jeebies, and that’s neither cheap nor good for you. To me, this screams white-shoe law firm. The good kind. I’m a good lawyer, but look around you: This building ain’t exactly Cravath, Swaine & Moore.”

I blink. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You will,” Skye promises, “because if we fight this, they’re gonna shove their threats so far down your throat that you’ll poop Cravath, Swaine & Moore letterhead.”