Chapter 3 - Thirty Days of Receipts
I knew him before I remembered his name.
Thomas Reed.
My father's accountant.
He looked older, thinner, grayer, but there was no mistaking him.
I didn't open the door immediately.
"Mr. Reed?"
He looked directly into the camera.
"Claire, I'm sorry to come this late."
"Why are you here?"
"Because your bank called me."
My stomach dropped.
"Why would my bank call you?"
He raised the document.
"Your father told them to."
I checked the locks before opening the door.
Thomas remained on the porch.
"I'm not asking to come inside."
That helped.
"What did my father do?"
"He tried to protect you."
"From my mother?"
Thomas looked tired.
"From a pattern."
I glanced toward the hallway.
Ava was asleep.
"Explain."
"Your father knew he was sick before most of the family did."
I knew that much.
Dad had died after a sudden decline that everyone described as unexpected.
Apparently it hadn't been unexpected to him.
"He started separating assets," Thomas continued. "Not because he wanted to hide money from your mother. Because he wanted both his children to have something independent."
"Both?"
"Marcus received his."
"When?"
"Years ago."
That surprised me.
"How much?"
"Approximately the same amount initially designated for you."
"And mine?"
"Your father created a protected account. You were supposed to receive control after certain paperwork was completed."
"Why didn't I?"
Thomas's mouth tightened.
"Because the paperwork disappeared."
I felt cold.
"Who had it?"
"Your mother."
Of course.
He handed me the envelope.
Inside were copies of statements, authorization forms, and a letter.
Dad's handwriting covered two pages.
I couldn't read it yet.
Not with Thomas watching.
"Why are there deposits from Mom and Marcus?"
"That's what concerns me."
He pointed to a statement.
Small amounts had moved in and out for years.
Deposits.
Withdrawals.
Replacements.
It looked like someone had been borrowing from the account repeatedly and putting money back before anyone noticed.
Until recently.
"What does this have to do with my emergency account?"
"Possibly everything."
Thomas showed me an old authorization.
My mother had been listed as temporary administrator after Dad's death.
That status should have expired.
It hadn't.
"Your family profile was built around the original trust structure," he said.
"So Mom could see my accounts?"
"Potentially."
"And Marcus?"
"If she delegated access."
My Christmas nightmare suddenly became nine years long.
"How much money did Dad leave me?"
Thomas hesitated.
"Originally? Forty thousand dollars."
My legs nearly gave way.
I had never received forty thousand dollars.
Not once.
"What happened to it?"
"That's why I'm here."
He showed me the records.
Withdrawals had begun three months after Dad died.
$800.
$1,200.
$3,000.
Then deposits replacing portions.
Then more withdrawals.
College expenses for Marcus.
A vehicle.
Credit card payments.
Something labeled HOME REPAIR.
I stared at years of my life converted into numbers.
While I had worked two jobs after my divorce.
While I had delayed dental work.
While I had told Ava we couldn't afford certain activities.
My money had apparently been circulating through the family like a private lending fund.
"Did you know?"
"No."
"How could you not?"
"Because after your father's death, Elaine told me you had chosen not to work with me."
"I never said that."
"I know that now."
I closed my eyes.
"How?"
"Because six months ago, I ran into an old mutual acquaintance who mentioned you didn't even know the account existed."
"Why didn't you contact me then?"
"I tried."
He showed me emails.
Wrong address.
Letters.
My mother's address.
Returned mail.
Then he showed me one final envelope.
Signed for.
ELAINE CARTER.
My mother.
She had received it.
She knew.
Thomas looked toward the house.
"Tonight, your bank's automated system flagged unusual access after you revoked the family permissions. Because of your father's instructions, I received notification."
"What instructions?"
"If anyone attempted unauthorized access after the account converted fully into your name, I was to contact you personally."
"Did someone?"
Thomas nodded.
"Twenty-seven minutes ago."
My stomach dropped.
"Who?"
"Marcus."
I grabbed my phone.
There were six missed calls from him.
Three from Mom.
One from Nicole.
Then a text arrived.
MARCUS: You have no idea what you're doing.
Another.
MARCUS: Do not touch Dad's account until we talk.
I almost laughed.
Dad's account.
Not mine.
Never mine in his mind.
Thomas watched my expression.
"Claire."
"What?"
"Don't respond tonight."
"Why?"
"Because there is one thing you need to understand before you confront them."
He pointed toward the documents.
"Your emergency savings wasn't the first account Marcus accessed this month."
My blood went cold.
"What else did he take?"
Thomas looked at me.
"That's not the question."
"What is?"
"Where did he put it?"
He handed me another statement.
December 2.
$8,000 withdrawn.
December 8.
$6,500.
December 19.
$4,200.
All from the hidden account.
Almost nineteen thousand dollars.
But the current balance was over thirty-one thousand.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does if somebody replaced the money."
"Who?"
Thomas tapped three deposits.
All made yesterday.
$18,700 total.
Originating account:
ELAINE CARTER.
My mother.
She had replaced almost exactly what Marcus had taken.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
But I did know one thing.
Mom hadn't been surprised at Christmas.
She wasn't discovering Marcus's behavior.
She was covering it.
Again.
My phone rang.
Nicole.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
"Claire?"
She was crying.
"What's wrong?"
"Marcus left."
"What do you mean?"
"He took a suitcase."
I looked at Thomas.
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know. But I found something."
Her voice dropped.
"Claire, he has folders with your name on them."
My pulse quickened.
"What folders?"
"Bank statements. Copies of your signature. Old tax forms."
Thomas heard.
His expression changed.
Nicole continued.
"And there's something else."
"What?"
"A letter from your dad."
My grip tightened.
"What does it say?"
"I haven't opened it."
"Why not?"
"Because the envelope isn't addressed to Marcus."
A pause.
"It's addressed to you."
I closed my eyes.
"Take a picture."
"I already did."
My phone buzzed.
An image appeared.
My father's handwriting.
CLAIRE — OPEN THIS IF YOUR MOTHER EVER TELLS YOU THAT YOU OWE MARCUS.
I stared at those words.
Then another message appeared.
Not from Nicole.
From my mother.
MOM: Please don't believe Thomas. Your father didn't tell you everything.
Before I could answer, another message arrived.
A photograph.
My father.
Marcus.
And a woman I didn't recognize.
Written across the bottom in Dad's handwriting were five words:
MARCUS MUST NEVER KNOW THIS.
I enlarged the image.
May you like
And then I saw what the woman was holding.
A newborn baby.
