Chapter 7 - The Letter on the Table
Dylan approached the dining table as if it were rigged with tripwires and explosives.
His hands shook uncontrollably as he reached out and touched the cold metal of Amanda’s wedding ring. The band sat directly atop the stack of bank statements.
His eyes scanned the first page: fluorescent yellow highlighter covered the first-class airline reservations, the boutique resort deposit, and the Tiffany transaction from Polaris.
Across the top of the statement, written in red ink with the precise, elegant handwriting he had seen on grocery lists and birthday cards for eight years, was a single note:
Marital Asset Dissipation: Claimed under Ohio Revised Code § 3105.171.
With trembling fingers, he tore open the white envelope and pulled out the single sheet of ivory paper.
You were right about one thing.
Dylan stopped reading. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt dizzy, his knees buckling until he had to plant both hands on the table to keep from collapsing onto the floor.
“You were right about one thing.”
He remembered saying it. He remembered standing in the kitchen while she chopped onions, leaning against the island, smug and untouchable, sneering down at her: “Then maybe you need to ask yourself why you can't trust your own husband.”
He read the rest of the letter, his vision blurring with a mixture of terror, disbelief, and sudden, suffocating panic.
The joint checking and savings accounts have been legally frozen... The commercial loan on your three landscaping trucks has been called by the lender... Do not contact my sister. Do not contact my parents. All future communications will go through Vance Family Law LLC.
""No, no, no,"" Dylan muttered frantically, backing away from the table. ""No, she can't do this. This is illegal. You can't just take everything and leave!""
The front door creaked open.
Dylan spun around, hope flaring wildly in his chest. ""Amanda?!""
A middle-aged man in a wrinkled trench coat stepped into the foyer, looking around at the bare walls with mild disinterest. The cab driver stood right behind him on the porch, looking furious.
""Dylan Mills?"" the man in the trench coat asked, pulling a thick blue-backed legal document from a leather portfolio.
""Who the hell are you?"" Dylan yelled. ""Get out of my house!""
""I'm a licensed process server for Franklin County,"" the man said smoothly, stepping forward and dropping the blue-backed folder onto Dylan’s dropped navy suitcase. ""You've been officially served with a petition for marital dissolution, an emergency restraining order regarding marital assets, and a notice of lis pendens regarding the sale of this real estate. Have a good evening, sir.""
""Wait!"" the cab driver barked from the doorway. ""You owe me eighty-five bucks for the fare from the airport, pal!""
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Dylan looked at the process server. He looked at the cab driver. He looked down at the legal summons lying against his shiny new suitcase.
He reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet, only to remember that every single credit and debit card in his possession was frozen solid.
