Chapter 12
I didn't turn on the big light when I got back to the apartment. The city was still there behind the glass, all those cool blue squares against the warm lamps inside, and I stood on that same marble for a long minute in my gala shoes before I kicked them off by the dark wood cabinetry. My feet hurt. The locket was warm against my skin under the black dress. I hadn't taken it off since the balcony.
Ethan wasn't there. He'd stayed downstairs to move the car. I knew I had maybe twenty minutes before he came up and started asking what I wanted to do about Richard.
I made coffee I didn't drink and sat at the counter where the marble veins caught the light. I opened my phone and found the number I'd saved three days earlier after I'd started looking up what my signature had actually done. Diane Keller, attorney. Her office was two blocks off the county courthouse, above a diner. Not a big downtown firm. The kind of place where you could walk in without a press release.
She picked up on the second ring even though it was past ten. I had texted her after the gala.
"Victoria," she said. Her voice was low and even. "You still at the apartment?"
"Yeah," I said. I kept my hand on the locket. The little floral border pressed into my thumb. "I have the filing you asked about. The authorization with my signature. It's not my handwriting. But it's my name. On the foundation account."
There was a pause and the soft sound of a chair creaking.
"Don't take it to the police yet," she said, same as before. "If you file before you revoke, they can claim you consented and stalled. You want to cut the key off first."
"The locket," I said quietly. I hadn't told her about the locket until that night. "Ethan said they used it. My signature was inside. They pressed it."
"That tracks," she said. "I've seen it with elderly clients. A signature plate. They keep it like a stamp. Legally it's still forgery if you didn't authorize the use. But you need to make it useless going forward."
I breathed in. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator.
"What do I do tomorrow?" I asked.
"You come in at nine. We sign a revocation of any power of attorney, any signature authority tied to the Cole Family Foundation and those accounts. We file it with the county clerk same morning and require in-person verification with ID for any future change. No more paper signatures. No digital copy. You show up, you sign in front of them. That's it."
"And that locks them out," I said.
"It locks the door you didn't know you'd left open," she said. "After that, if they try to use the old paper, it's dead on arrival. The clerk flags it."
I looked toward the glass railing. The city didn't care. That helped.
"Will it notify them right away?" I asked.
"Not until they try to use it again," she said. "But you can tell them yourself. That's cleaner than letting them find out at the bank."
That was the part I'd been turning over since the gala, watching Richard shake hands and my mom smile for photos while my name sat on a piece of paper somewhere in a foundation tower office.
"I don't want to do it public," I said. "I don't want a ballroom or a sheriff in the lobby. I want them here. In this living room. Where they did it."
Another small pause.
"That's smart," Diane said. "Controlled. Two people. No audience to perform for. Bring the locket. Bring the copy of the filing. Don't hand over the locket. Just show it."
My throat tightened but my voice stayed steady.
"Okay," I said. "Nine at your office. Then I invite them for ten thirty."
"Don't tell Ethan to tell them," she added. "Call them yourself. Keep it short. Say you found a paperwork issue you want to clear up in person. Nothing more."
After we hung up, I sat there with the phone in my lap. The white papers Ethan had held that first night were still in a manila folder on the counter. I hadn't touched them. I opened the locket instead. Inside, under the tiny glass, was the imprint I'd finally seen clearly in the dressing suite mirror that week — my signature, etched shallow, exactly as I'd signed the wedding vendor checks eighteen months ago. Not a copy. A press.
The lock clicked softly when I closed it. The thin gold chain held.
I texted Richard first. Then my mom. Same message, copied.
Can you stop by the apartment tomorrow at 10:30? Found a paperwork issue with my signature on the foundation file. Want to clear it in person with you both. Just us.
My mom replied in three minutes.
Of course honey. Is everything okay?
Richard took longer. Seven minutes.
We'll be there. 10:30.
I set the phone face-down. I went to the bedroom and laid out the folder, the revocation form Diane had emailed me to review, and the locket on the dark wood dresser where the light hit it. I didn't hide any of it. I didn't need to.
When Ethan's key turned in the door, I was back on the couch with my coffee gone cold. He looked at me and didn't ask who I'd called.
May you like
"Tomorrow morning," I said, and he just nodded.
The locket rested against my collarbone again, right where they'd wanted it to stay.
