My thumb hovered over the screen of my phone until the display went dark.
Julian sat down in the blue plastic chair beside me, holding a thick manila folder under his arm. The air in the hospital waiting room smelled of floor wax and stale coffee from the vending machine in the corner. He did not look at me, keeping his eyes on the hallway where a nurse walked past carrying a metal tray of small medicine cups.
He handed me three printed pages. The paper was still warm from his office laser printer.
“Who signed the authorization?” I asked.
“You did,” Julian said. His voice was a flat, deliberate monotone. “Or rather, someone who spent twenty minutes practicing your signature on a tablet screen.”
My wedding ring felt tight on my finger, and I rubbed the gold band with my thumb.
“Mark,” I said.
Julian nodded once, a slow and heavy movement. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses by the bridge. “The transfer for fourteen thousand dollars went directly into his personal checking account on Tuesday morning. He used your corporate routing number to execute the wire from your business portal.”
