“Really? Really?” He walked back to me. “You want us to get back on our feet?”
“I’m willing to try,” I said, and I was willing.
“No, you’re willing to sentence me to an office for the rest of my life, but you’re not willing to lend me the money to pay our bills so I can make this work. Put your money where your mouth is, Andrea.”
I was so tired of this debate. I tried to remain calm. “We’ve talked about this, Graham. Even if I could, it’s not going to solve our problems. What do we do next month and the month after that?”
“All I need is another month to turn this thing around,” he said.
“You said that last month,” I said before I could stop myself.
He glared at me. “I didn’t know you were keeping score.”
I took a breath. “Look, this wasn’t your fault. The timing was wrong and the location was too expensive.”
“Oh,” he said, voice rising. “So this is all my fault. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I said it wasn’t your fault.”
“I heard what you said and I know what you mean. You think it’s my fault. Well, I don’t, Andrea. I did my homework and I did my research. I had the vision. I put in the time and the sweat equity. What I needed was more capital. What I needed was support. For better or for worse, Andrea. Do you remember those words, ‘for better or for worse’?”
He had no idea how many times I’d heard those words every day in my head, like the beating of tribal drums just before an attack. He moved quickly to the front door, to where I saw he had set his leather satchel. He carried it back to the couch, going through it, and pulled out papers, letting the satchel drop onto the couch. He thrust the papers at me.
“I prepared loan documents, Andrea. You want to help. Put your money where your mouth is. You can loan the business the money.”
“What would be the collateral?”
“Are you kidding me?” he shouted. “Are we really going to go there?”
I was confused and worried. I put the papers down, trying to think. “I can’t loan the business the money, Graham.”
“No. You won’t loan me the money!” He closed the distance between us and shoved the papers into my chest hard enough to make me step backward. “Well, guess what, Andrea? In addition to that little letter from the law firm that I forged, I also forged your name on the personal guarantees to the bank and on the lease.”
I felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. “You did what?”
He gave me a sardonic smile. “How does that grab you? So, you can either give me the money so I can get this to work, or you can just sign it over to the bank.”
“You bastard.”
He laughed. “Doesn’t feel so good when your ass is on the line, does it?”
“I’m not giving you the money,” I said, now defiant. “Let the bank come after it. My parents’ attorney says the trust can’t be broken.”
Graham closed the distance, backing me up until I was at the kitchen counter. I had nowhere to go. “I’m through playing around, Andrea. I need that money. I am not going to jail.”
“I’m leaving.” I tried to step around him to the front door but he blocked my escape.
“I need that money, Andrea!”
“No.” I bumped him out of the way and started toward the door.
He grabbed my wrist hard and spun me. I shot out my foot, kicking him hard in the shin. He winced and moaned but did not release his grip. He shook me, bending my wrist. “I need that Goddamn money!”
“No!” I yelled. “You’re hurting me.”
And then he slapped me, hard, across the face.
The blow knocked me to the ground.
It happened so fast I wasn’t really even sure he’d hit me, but then my face stung and burst into flames.
The room fell silent, the air so still I could hear the clock on the stove ticking. I had my head down, my hand pressed to my cheek, which was warm to the touch. Above me, I heard the faint sound of Graham breathing. I sat there, my gaze on the floor, hair covering my face, tasting the metallic tinge of my own blood. Then, slowly, I looked up at him. I looked up at the man I’d married.
His hand remained balled in a fist.
CHAPTER 11
Late on a weekday afternoon, Faz and Del stepped through the doors of the Department of Licensing on Spring Street in downtown Seattle. A mass of bored humanity sat in uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, which was just what Faz had expected to find. An automated female voice identified the next customer and directed the person to the proper window, everyone moving like robots.
“It’s like something out of an apocalyptic movie in which machines have taken over and humans are drones,” Faz said. “I think I watched this on TV last night.”
“How many you think are here for the air-conditioning?” Del said.