Page 17 of Sweet Ruin

Poor Tony, I write back. Drive safe.

Then I go back into the sink. I try a few more promising pieces, but they all die just like the first couple. I’m starting to think of backup plans. How does one undo a fire? Could I lay out the somewhat whole bits on a sheet pan and dry them out in the oven?

Then, yahtzee.

I find a folded corner pressed flat against the side of the basin, where the water never reached.

First, I photograph it where it lies, wedged in the char, before I put a finger on it. Then I lift it out, flatten it on a paper towel, and photograph it again.

The top edge is burned to lace. What’s left of the letterhead says V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC, and the first word of that name is ash. There’s no address or date left on it. Two broken lines of boilerplate survive in the middle of it, and all that’s readable on them is PROMISSORY and the undersigned.

Underneath those is the signature line.

The signature on it is...

Mine.

What the hell?

But it is. Delilah A. Dorsey, with the big loop on the D, the dashed-off dot over the i, the little squiggle at the end. That’s my signature.

Right above a line that says BORROWER.

Problem is... I never signed this.

When I look closer, I see that it’s off in ways I’d never miss. Yes, the D loops, but it closes at a weird angle. Now that I’m squinting, I see the dash in the i is actually aimed in the wrong direction.

This is a forgery. A good one, but fake nonetheless.

Why was Connor burning a borrowing form with my forged signature on it?!

“I’ve been meaning to clear the office out.”

Sure you have, buddy. But the accountant isn’t the one who told you to do that, is he?

I get a freezer bag out of the drawer, the good kind with the double seal, and put the corner inside it. Then I photograph the bag as an extra precaution.

Then, once that’s done, I tuck it inside the zip pocket in my work bag.

But I’m not satisfied. I need more answers. So I strip off the dishwashing gloves and go to the next place in the house most likely to have them.

Connor’s office.

He said he was clearing it out, but there’s still plenty in here. Beneath the poster from last year’s poker tournament in Atlantic City, in which he won three hundred bucks back against a two-thousand-dollar entry fee, there’s a hulking filing cabinet.

I open the top drawer and start flicking through things. I’m reminded as I do so that he is definitely still a hoarder. I’m almost positive I’m gonna find his elementary school report cards any second now.

Until I come across an empty folder in the back.

It’s unlabeled, but I can just feel in the marrow of my bones that this is what held the stuff that’s now wet ash in the sink.

Dammit.

Onto his desk then. Top drawer is pens and chargers, second drawer is his cherished poker chip set, third drawer is empty.

Underneath the desk, behind it, nothing, nothing. I even lift up the mousepad, just to be sure.

But nothing appears that would make any sense of V Haven Holdings.