I could hear the rising panic in his voice, vibrating through the floor.

“I am Carl Morrison. I built this building.”

I chuckled softly under my breath.

He didn’t build it; his father did.

Carl just inherited the brick and the mortgage.

“Look up the tax ID,” Carl said, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke to the automated system.

“What power of attorney? I never signed anything like that.”

There was a long silence.

He was listening to the operator tell him the bad news.

He was listening to them tell him that his wife, Mallerie, had full authorization.

“That’s fraud,” he whispered.

I heard him slam his fist against the wooden workbench downstairs.

A box of metal screws rattled and spilled onto the concrete floor.

“That is my personal account!” he yelled.

“My wife has no right to touch that!”

I knocked twice on the basement door with my knuckles.

“It’s already done, Carl,” I called out through the keyhole.

“The bank doesn’t care about your feelings. They care about notary stamps.”

The basement went completely silent.