“What property?”
“He said he was setting it up for investment projects.”
“With my company’s money?”
“I didn’t know that.”
Eric snapped, “Because it wasn’t her money.”
I looked at him.
“Try that sentence again.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.
I don’t.”
He spread his hands.
“For nine years, I covered things too.”
I almost admired the speed of the pivot.
Within seconds, he had moved from denial to entitlement.
“I paid the mortgage.”
“On the house you inherited without a mortgage.”
His jaw flexed.
“I paid taxes.”
“So did I.”
“I paid insurance.”
“So did I.”
“I supported your business when you started it.”
I smiled.
“You mean when you told me my design company was a hobby until my annual revenue passed yours?”
Marissa looked at him.
Eric ignored her.
My attorney said, “Natalie, photograph the drive and send me the serial number.”
I did.
Eric watched.
Every second made him more agitated.
One of the movers appeared in the doorway.
“Ms.
Brooks?”
“Yes?”
“Should we keep going?”
I looked around.
The room was nearly bare.
“Yes.”
Eric shouted, “No.”
The mover froze.
I met his eyes.
“The invoices are in the binder on the kitchen counter.
Anything with Brooks Design Studio or my personal name gets loaded.”
The mover nodded.
Eric pointed at me.
“You cannot strip this house.”
I stepped closer.
“I can remove what I own.”
“This is insane.”
“No.”
I looked at the empty wall where my favorite abstract painting had hung.
“This is inventory.”
That word broke something in him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
I wasn’t.
That surprised me.
I thought I might.
For six weeks I had imagined this morning.
I imagined Eric walking into an empty dining room.
Marissa staring at bare walls.
The perfect house he thought he had won reduced to floors, windows, cabinetry, and regret.
But standing there, all I felt was clarity.
Nine years had not vanished.
They had been itemized.
Cataloged.
Dated.
Owned.
I had spent too long believing love meant merging everything until nothing could be distinguished anymore.
My father had taught me differently.
Possession was not ownership.
Apparently that applied to more than furniture.
My phone rang again.
Different number.
I answered.
“Ms.
Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Aaron Price with Financial Crimes.”
Eric’s entire body stiffened.
I looked at him.
The detective continued.
“Your attorney contacted us regarding a suspected unauthorized transfer.
I need to ask that you preserve all devices and records currently in your possession.”
Eric laughed.
It was too loud.
“This is ridiculous.”
Price heard him.
“Is Mr.
Brooks present?”
“Yes.”
“Do not allow anyone to destroy or alter potential evidence.
Officers are on the way.”
Eric moved toward the front hall.
I said, “Where are you going?”
He stopped.
“My office.”
“No.”
He turned.
“This is my house.”
“And apparently my company files are in your storage devices.”
“I said I’m going to my office.”
Marissa spoke.
“Eric.”
He looked at her.
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
For the first time since I had met her, I saw something in her expression that made me dislike her less.
