Chapter 6 - The Signature of Judas
The following day at 1:55 PM, the silver BMW pulled up to Abigail’s curb with a sharp screech of tires.
Spencer practically bounded out of the driver’s side, though he quickly adjusted his posture, hunching his back and pressing a hand to his throat as he walked up the porch steps. Behind him came Chloe, carrying a faux-leather briefcase, her eyes darting around the quiet suburban street like a fox entering a chicken coop.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of lavender and lemon polish.
Arthur Sterling sat at the head of the dining table, wearing a three-piece charcoal suit that screamed old-money authority. On the table lay four stacks of thick legal parchment, each bound with red ribbon and bearing the official seal of the state notary public. Beside him sat a severe-looking woman with gray hair: Detective Miller, disguised as the commercial developer’s closing agent.
Abigail sat in the corner armchair, wearing David’s old wool cardigan over her shoulders, her hands holding a cold cup of tea.
Spencer burst through the door, coughing softly into a white linen handkerchief.
“Mr. Sterling,” Spencer gasped, extending a trembling hand. “Thank you for coming. My mother told me about the union land… God, if my father were here today, he’d be so proud to see us finally getting what’s ours.”
Arthur did not take Spencer’s hand. He simply adjusted his glasses and pointed to the chair across from him.
“Sit down, Spencer,” Arthur said, his voice flat. “We have very little time. The developer’s board of directors is meeting in Chicago at three o’clock. If these transfer instruments aren't executed and transmitted electronically within thirty minutes, the offer is withdrawn, and they will purchase the adjacent parcel owned by the railroad.”
Spencer slid into the chair so quickly he almost knocked over the salt shaker. Chloe stood directly behind him, her fingers digging into the back of his chair, her eyes burning into the documents.
“Where do I sign?” Spencer asked, pulling a gold Montblanc pen from his pocket—another item bought with Abigail’s pawning proceeds.
“First, you need to understand what you’re executing,” Arthur said, turning the pages with deliberate slowness. “This is an unconditional assignment of all rights, titles, and claims arising from the David Riley Estate and any associated commercial properties. By signing, you warrant that you are acting in full legal capacity, without duress, and that you accept full liability for any debts, claims, or encumbrances previously levied against these assets.”
“Yeah, yeah, full liability, I get it,” Spencer said dismissively, flicking through the pages to find the yellow signature tabs. “It’s boilerplate.”
“And in exchange,” Arthur continued, his voice dropping into a solemn cadence, “the trust will issue an immediate closing advance of five hundred thousand dollars in certified funds, payable to Spencer Riley, to be used for the immediate satisfaction of any urgent obligations.”
Arthur reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cashier’s check from J.P. Morgan Chase.
The green ink seemed to glow under the dining room chandelier.
**PAY TO THE ORDER OF: SPENCER RILEY**
**THE AMOUNT OF: $500,000.00**
**RE: THE PHOENIX TRUST / COMMERCIAL DISBURSEMENT**
Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers actually twitched over the tabletop. Chloe gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Five hundred thousand…” Spencer whispered. “Right now?”
“Upon execution of the four instruments,” Arthur said smoothly. “The remaining four point five million will be wired to the designated corporate trust account within forty-eight hours, following the state land registry’s confirmation.”
“Give me the damn pen,” Spencer muttered.
“Spencer,” Abigail’s voice broke the silence from the corner of the room.
Spencer stopped, his pen hovering two inches above the first signature line. He looked over his shoulder at his mother.
Abigail was looking at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before. It was not grief. It was not fear. It was the look of a person standing on the deck of a ship, watching someone drop an anchor into the deep.
“Spencer,” Abigail said softly. “Are you sure you want to do this? Once you sign those papers, there is no going back. If you tell me the truth right now… if you tell me what’s really going on with your health, with the money, with this woman… we can stop this. We can find a way to fix it together.”
Spencer’s face tightened with irritation. He looked at the cashier’s check for five hundred thousand dollars, then looked back at his mother’s worn, tired face.
“Mom, stop being so dramatic,” Spencer snapped, his voice dropping the sick-son act entirely, revealing the sharp, ugly edge of his true nature. “You’ve been an anxious wreck your whole life. This is business. Dad worked like a dog for thirty years and left us with a leaking roof and forty grand in debt. For once in your life, let someone with a brain handle the money.”
He turned back to the table and pressed the gold nib to the parchment.
*Spencer D. Riley.*
He signed the first document: the confession of grand larceny.
*Spencer D. Riley.*
He signed the second document: the voluntary forfeiture of all personal accounts.
*Spencer D. Riley.*
He signed the third document: the certification that every medical claim submitted to St. Jude Hospital was a fraudulent fabrication.
*Spencer D. Riley.*
He signed the final document: the waiver of all rights to legal counsel during initial state financial depositions.
He slammed the pen onto the wood, grabbed the cashier’s check off the table, and shoved it deep into the breast pocket of his coat.
“There,” Spencer said, a wild, victorious laugh bursting from his throat. “It’s done.”
He didn't look at his mother. He didn't offer to help her out of the chair. He grabbed Chloe by the elbow, turned toward the front door, and sneered at Arthur.
“Send the wire confirmation to my personal email, old man,” Spencer said. “And don't bother calling this house anymore. My mom won't be living here much longer.”
The front door slammed shut behind them.
Inside the quiet room, Arthur Sterling carefully gathered the four signed documents, checked the blue-ink signatures, and handed them to Detective Miller.
“The signatures are authentic,” Arthur said. “He didn't read a single paragraph.”
Detective Miller reached into her jacket, pulled out a high-band two-way radio, and pressed the talk button.
“All units, this is Miller. Target is mobile with the marked instrument. Proceed to Phase Two at the marina. Move in on my signal.”
Abigail stood up from the armchair. She walked over to the dining table, picked up the cold cup of tea, and carried it to the sink.
She poured it down the drain, watched the dark liquid swirl away, and then turned off the tap.
May you like
For the first time in eighteen months, the faucet did not drip.
***
