Chapter 6 - Marcus Makes His Move
I called Mom immediately.
She answered on the second ring.
"Claire—"
"Why are you at Dad's cottage?"
Silence.
Then, "How do you know?"
"Security camera."
I watched her turn toward it.
Even through the tiny screen, I saw her face change.
"I didn't know about the camera."
"Clearly."
"Marcus told me the property needed paperwork."
"Put him on."
"Claire—"
"Now."
A rustle.
Then Marcus.
"You spying on me?"
"My property has security."
"Our property."
"No."
"Mom has rights."
"No."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Actually, I'm standing beside Dad's accountant."
Silence.
That felt good.
Not triumphant.
Clean.
"Put the notary on."
Marcus looked toward the third man.
"He doesn't need to talk to you."
"Then I'll call the bank handling your loan application."
The notary immediately stepped away from Marcus.
Good.
Mom's voice rose in the background.
"Loan?"
Marcus ended the call.
Thomas was already contacting the attorney.
Within an hour, the attempted transaction was stopped.
By noon, the notary had provided copies of everything Marcus had presented.
Forged trustee paperwork.
A copied signature.
My name.
That changed matters.
This was no longer Marcus slipping into a family-linked savings account with Mom's permission.
He had put my signature on legal documents.
I stared at the copies.
Thomas said quietly, "You need to let your attorney handle this."
I did.
That was one of the hardest lessons of the entire mess.
I didn't have to personally fight every battle.
I could document.
Protect.
Step away.
Let professionals do their jobs.
Marcus called seventeen times.
I didn't answer.
He texted:
YOU'RE DESTROYING MY LIFE.
Then:
THIS IS DAD'S FAULT.
Then:
CALL ME BEFORE THIS GETS OUT OF CONTROL.
I saved every message.
Nicole called that evening.
"He came home."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes. My sister's here."
"What happened?"
"He wants me to tell you it was a misunderstanding."
I almost laughed.
"Forgery is a pretty ambitious misunderstanding."
"I know."
She sounded exhausted.
"Claire, I'm filing for separation."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not."
That surprised both of us.
She continued.
"I'm sorry it took your daughter getting hurt for me to finally see him."
"Don't do that."
"What?"
"Don't make yourself responsible for his choices."
There was a pause.
"You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
"Saying things you should've been saying for years."
I smiled.
Maybe I was.
The following Saturday, Ava and I repaired Button.
We didn't try to make him new.
That was her decision.
"I like his patches."
So we replaced the yellow tape with careful stitching.
We cleaned him.
Restuffed his body.
Secured the button eye.
Ava chose purple thread for the ear.
"Now you can tell he was fixed," she said.
"Is that good?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
She shrugged.
"Because if you can't tell something was broken, nobody knows somebody cared enough to fix it."
I had to look away.
Eight years old.
Sometimes children accidentally say the thing adults spend decades learning.
A week passed.
Then two.
The financial investigation continued.
Mom repaid additional money she'd taken indirectly.
I didn't accept apologies as currency.
We made a spreadsheet.
Every transfer.
Every false emergency.
Every unauthorized withdrawal we could document.
Some money could be recovered.
Some couldn't.
I decided that recovering myself mattered more than recovering every dollar.
Lily and I kept talking.
Slowly.
No dramatic instant sisterhood.
Coffee.
Texts.
A photograph of her daughter missing two front teeth.
A picture of Ava holding Button.
Then one Saturday, we introduced the girls.
They became cousins in approximately eleven seconds.
Adults make family complicated.
Children ask, "Do you like pancakes?" and move on.
Mom wasn't invited.
Not yet.
She respected that.
For once.
Marcus did not.
He sent emails.
Letters.
Messages through relatives.
At first, angry.
Then pleading.
Then angry again.
I didn't respond.
Finally, my attorney sent him formal instructions to communicate only through appropriate channels about financial matters.
The silence afterward felt strange.
Then came Ava's choir trip.
The original money was restored.
But something had changed.
I didn't want the trip funded by money associated with humiliation.
So I used part of Dad's legitimate inheritance.
Ava didn't know the details.
She only knew she was going.
The morning we paid the deposit, she danced around the kitchen with Button.
I laughed.
For the first time since Christmas, the sound didn't feel borrowed.
Then my phone rang.
It was Mom.
I almost ignored it.
But something told me not to.
"Hello?"
She was crying.
Not her usual emotional pressure.
This sounded different.
"Claire."
"What happened?"
"It's Marcus."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he do?"
"He came here."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"What does he want?"
"The letter."
"What letter?"
"Your father's letter to him."
I remembered the safe-deposit box.
Three letters.
Mine.
Lily's.
Marcus's.
We had never opened his.
It wasn't ours.
Thomas had placed it with the attorney for safekeeping.
"Why?"
"He says Dad's letter proves the cottage belongs to him."
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"How would he know what's in a sealed letter?"
Mom stopped crying.
The silence stretched.
"Mom?"
"I told him."
"Told him what?"
"Years ago."
My stomach sank.
"What was in Dad's letter?"
"I didn't read the whole thing."
"But you opened it."
"Yes."
Of course she had.
"What did it say?"
Her breathing shook.
"Your father told Marcus there was one thing he would inherit later."
"What?"
"I don't know."
"You read the letter."
"Not that page."
"Where is it?"
Another silence.
"Mom."
"The page is missing."
My skin prickled.
"When did it disappear?"
"I don't know."
"Who had access?"
She whispered the answer.
"Marcus."
At that exact moment, my email notification sounded.
One new message.
From an address I didn't recognize.
Subject:
YOUR FATHER'S FINAL INSTRUCTION.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
A torn page.
Dad's handwriting.
At the bottom, one sentence had been circled in red:
WHEN AVA TURNS NINE, CLAIRE MUST BE TOLD THE TRUTH ABOUT HER FATHER.
I stopped breathing.
Ava's ninth birthday was three weeks away.
And behind me, she whispered:
"Mom?"
I turned.
She was holding an old photograph she'd found inside Button.
A photograph of a man.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
FOR AVA, WHEN CLAIRE IS READY.
