Chapter 11 - WHAT “UNAVAILABLE” MEANT
Rachel would not let us turn one ugly phrase into attempted murder.
Neither would Julian's lawyer.
“Unavailable could mean incapacitated, resigned, dead, unreachable, anything.”
Julian stared at the checklist.
“That's comforting.”
“It isn't supposed to be.”
The hospital episode remained suspicious.
Nothing more.
But the insurance carrier opened its own investigation after learning Julian disputed the policy increase.
The lender investigated the unauthorized email.
Peter's firm investigated the forged documents.
The North Carolina State Bar received a grievance.
Civil litigation expanded.
Slowly.
Expensively.
Realistically.
Gavin remained free.
He had not been convicted of anything.
He continued denying fraud through counsel.
That frustrated Julian.
It reassured me.
I did not want a fantasy ending where one folder sent everybody to prison before dinner.
I wanted facts that survived lawyers.
Meanwhile, our lives kept moving.
The mortgage payment was due.
My firm had payroll.
My mother needed cataract surgery.
Henry needed $1,400 worth of dental work because apparently even dogs understood financial timing.
Julian offered money.
I refused until Rachel clarified which funds were legitimately his.
We opened separate accounts.
The marital brokerage account was restricted by agreement.
The townhouse remained disputed collateral, but the lender agreed not to foreclose while the signature challenge was litigated.
Julian and I began formal separation.
North Carolina required living separate and apart for a year before an absolute divorce.
That year suddenly felt both enormous and necessary.
One evening, he came to collect winter clothes.
I stood in the bedroom doorway while he packed.
“This is really happening,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I keep thinking if I explain enough…”
“You can't explain me back into trusting you.”
He folded a shirt.
“I didn't forge your name.”
“I know.”
He looked up.
That was the first time I had said it.
“But you hid $720,000 in exposure.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe our finances were safe.”
“Yes.”
“You used my work without permission.”
“I thought the developer had rights.”
“You never asked me.”
“No.”
“You let Serena notarize documents you thought I'd signed without once saying, ‘Hey, Elena, thanks for signing that deed transferring our house.’”
He sat on the bed.
“I know.”
That was why our marriage was ending.
Not because Gavin manipulated him.
Because manipulation worked only where Julian had already created darkness.
He looked toward our wedding photograph.
“Do you hate me?”
I considered it.
“No.”
That seemed to hurt more.
“I don't know what to do with that.”
“You don't have to do anything.”
He zipped the suitcase.
At the door, he stopped.
“I loved you.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
“That's not enough.”
“No.”
He left.
The next morning, Serena arrived at my office.
No appointment.
No cream dress.
Jeans and an old UNC Charlotte sweatshirt.
She placed a notarization journal on my desk.
“What is this?”
“My journal.”
I flipped through it.
Entries.
Dates.
Signatures.
Then several blank lines where transactions involving me should have appeared.
“I never entered your documents.”
“I know.”
“No. Look closer.”
She pointed.
Three entries had been added later.
Different ink.
My name.
My forged signature.
Dates corresponding to the deed, insurance ownership change, and guaranty.
“I didn't write these.”
My skin went cold.
“Who had your journal?”
She swallowed.
“Julian's office kept it for two weeks because Peter said they needed to copy closing records.”
“Who physically picked it up?”
“Gavin.”
There was one more forged layer.
Someone had tried to make Serena's improper notarizations look procedurally complete after the fact.
Then I noticed something beside my fake signature.
A thumbprint.
Serena frowned.
“I never require fingerprints.”
Neither did North Carolina law for those documents.
Someone had added it voluntarily.
Perhaps to make the record look stronger.
Rachel had it examined.
The print was not mine.
It was clear enough for comparison.
And Serena knew whose it was before any expert did.
She stared at the enlarged image.
“I've seen that scar.”
“What scar?”
“The little crescent across the thumb.”
May you like
She looked at me.
“That's Peter's.”
