Part 4: The Check With Her Name On It
I don't remember driving to Melissa's house. I remember my hands gripping the steering wheel and Noah asking from the back seat, "Mommy, where are we going?" and me saying, "To Aunt Melissa's, baby, it's fine," in a voice that didn't sound like mine. I remember the new SUV in her driveway — a white Tahoe with dealer plates, still with the sticker in the window.
She opened the door before I even knocked. She must have seen my car pull up. Her smile was already in place, bright and enormous.
"Emily! Did you see my post? Isn't it amazing? I still can't—"
"Where is my ticket, Melissa."
Her smile didn't move. "What?"
"MY ticket. The one I bought at the Corner Mart on Tuesday night. The one I signed. The one that disappeared from my Bible while you were sleeping on my couch. Where is it?"
"Emily, you're scaring Noah," she said softly, glancing at my son. "Why don't you come inside and we can talk like adults?"
"No. We're talking right here. You claimed my lottery ticket. That check has my money on it."
She crossed her arms. "Your money? Emily, I bought that ticket myself. Wednesday morning, at the Quick Stop on West Main. I scratched it in my car. I won fair and square."
"You bought it Wednesday morning?" I said. "Then how come Marcus — the clerk at the Corner Mart — told me Tuesday night that the top prize ticket had been sold? How come my phone has photos of the winning ticket with MY signature on the back, timestamped Tuesday at 8:47 PM?"
For half a second, her face changed. Just a flicker. Then the tears came — instant, practiced, the same tears she'd cried when Derek left and she'd needed me to watch her kids for three months.
"You're jealous," she whispered. "My own sister is jealous of me. I finally catch a break in my life and you want to take it from me."
"Jealous?" My voice cracked. "Melissa, I have PHOTOS."
"Photos of A ticket," she said. "You lost your ticket, Em. You told me yourself you couldn't find it. Maybe — maybe you dropped it. Maybe somebody found it and turned it in. These things happen. The lottery office has my claim, my ID, my signature. It's done."
"Your signature?" I said slowly. "The back of that ticket had MY signature on it. In blue ink. EMILY THORNTON."
She wiped her eyes and smiled a small, terrible smile. "Then I guess whoever found your ticket must have signed over it. Or maybe the ink smudged. The lottery office accepted my claim, Emily. It's over. You should be happy for me."
She closed the door in my face.
I stood on her porch with Noah tugging at my sleeve, and I looked through her front window. There were shopping bags piled in her living room. A new TV, still in the box. And on her mantel, in a frame, was a photocopy of the winning ticket.
I could see it from the porch. The back of the ticket, displayed like a trophy.
The signature on it was in black ink. It said MELISSA THORNTON.
My signature was gone. Completely, perfectly gone — like it had never been there at all.
