My hand went to the bridge of my nose, nudging my glasses up.
“Who is the primary buyer on that contract?” I asked.
“Brianna Lawson,” he said. “And the file list has you down as the sole financial guarantor.”
The kitchen went very cold. I looked down at my cup of black coffee, steam rising in a thin, straight line.
“I never signed any guarantor paperwork for my sister,” I said.
Peter did not sigh, but his voice grew slightly more formal, the retail warmth dropping away completely.
“Ms. Lawson, we have a signed third-party guarantee with your name, social security number, and employer details,” Peter said. “If you are claiming you did not sign this, we have a significant legal problem.”
“I am telling you I did not sign it,” I said. “I was not even in Ocala three weeks ago. I was working remotely from Georgia.”
“I can email you the scanned copy of the document we have on file,” Peter said. “I need you to look at it immediately.”
“Send it,” I said.
“I am sending it to the address listed in our credit application,” Peter said. “It should arrive in your inbox in thirty seconds.”
I hung up and walked down the short hallway to my home office.
The room was small, containing only my desk, a filing cabinet, and a window looking out at the damp Florida pines.
I sat in my mesh chair and woke up my laptop, the screen illuminating the dark room.
The email notification popped up in the corner of my monitor. The sender was Westbridge Motors, and the subject line was a string of nine numbers.
I clicked the attachment, waiting for the three-page PDF to load.
The first page was a standard credit application with my sister’s handwriting, all large, rounded loops.
The second page was the guarantor form, a dense block of gray text with my name typed at the top.
At the bottom of the page, on the line marked guarantor signature, was my name.
