Page 256 of Sweet Ruin

So I already know most of what’s in his hands. Technically speaking, I don’t need to speak with him directly.

I still text back.

ME: Come in.

I unlock the front and go back behind the counter, in my battle position.

He comes in with snow-melt on his shoulders. No overcoat this time. Black sweater, sleeves pushed to the elbows, no rings that I can see. He’s got a leather portfolio case under his arm. He stops six feet from the counter and stays there.

“Happy Easter,” he says.

“Likewise.”

That’s it for pleasantries. He sets the case on the counter, unzips it, and starts taking things out and laying them in a row, facing me. He talks as he works.

“Release of lien. Recorded Wednesday with the city register. That’s the stamped copy with the document number in the corner. Your building is not encumbered by anything of mine.”

He sets down the next.

“The guaranty. Canceled. Void retroactive to the day it was executed, with an acknowledgment written on the face of it that the guarantor never signed it and never consented to it.”

Next.

“Connor Boyd’s sworn statement. Notarized. He says the same thing in his own words—that he signed your name, that you didn’t know, that you never saw a dollar.”

Next.

“A permanent waiver from V Haven Holdings. It’s a release of any claim against the property, the equipment, the business, and the name, forever.”

Then he sets down something thicker. A bound stack, an inch and a half of it.

“These are waivers from every other company I control that could ever have claimed an interest in that lot. Ninety-one of them. They’re in numbered order and there’s an index on top.”

He sets down the title report last.

“Title report as of Friday. Owner of record, Delilah A. Dorsey. No liens. No options. No rights of first refusal. No recorded memoranda. Free and clear.”

I look at the row of documents on my own counter, on the same square of laminate where I once let him bully me into saying I’m not too much, and I have to swallow back the sudden onrush of emotion. I resent it. That he can still make me feel so much.

“Skye already read most of this,” I tell him.

“Good. That’s her job.”

“She said the affidavit’s an admission. She said a prosecutor could work with it.”

“She’s right.”

“She said you have to have known that.”

“I did. I do.”

I rest my palm on the stack of waivers, mostly to be doing something. The papers are cold from being outside.

“Why go to this length?” I ask. “The lien is gone. Why all of it?”

“Because I’m not asking you to trust me, Lilah. Not one bit. You said your ability to trust is broken, so I removed it from the equation.” He adjusts his stance. “Just so you know, I took Lot 22 out of the assembly. It isn’t part of the project anymore. There’s no deal it’s holding up. Nobody has a reason to come here about it.”

I frown. “That ends your project.”