“That is what he told me,” Todd said. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a heavy silver fountain pen, and scribbled a quick signature on a shipping manifest. He set the pen down on the corner of John’s desk, gathered his clipboard, and headed toward the back door. “I have to check the inventory on the flatbed.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Vanna looked down at the desk. The silver fountain pen sat on the dark oak wood, its polished barrel catching the light from the desk lamp. She did not touch it, but she noted the tiny, elegant initials engraved near the clip.
At eight o’clock, the living room of their home was quiet except for the rhythmic patter of a autumn rain against the glass. John stood by the large front window, his back to her, staring out at the dark street.
Vanna sat on the sofa, holding a manila envelope that had arrived in their mailbox that afternoon without a return address. Inside was a single photocopied page of a joint venture agreement.
“John,” Vanna said, her voice quiet. “You need to look at this.”
