Chapter 3
I remembered the papers immediately.
They had been sitting on the kitchen island beside a purple folder.
Tiffany had given me a blue pen.
She told me we were playing a grown-up game.
"Ariana?"
My father's voice brought me back.
"Baby, what papers?"
I twisted the hem of my pink dress.
"I don't know."
"That's okay. Tell me what you remember."
"Tiffany said I had to write my whole name."
"Where?"
"On some papers."
"How many?"
"Three, I think."
My father's face tightened.
"Did she explain why?"
I nodded slowly.
"She said if I signed them, I'd get a surprise."
"What surprise?"
"A puppy."
My father's eyes closed.
I had begged for a puppy since kindergarten.
He'd promised we could get one when I was old enough to help care for it.
Tiffany knew how badly I wanted one.
"Did you sign them?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Not all of them."
"Why not?"
"Because Grandma told me never to sign something I didn't understand."
My father pulled me into his arms.
"Thank God for Grandma."
I swallowed.
"Tiffany got mad."
"What did she do?"
"She ripped one paper and said I ruined everything."
I remembered her nails digging into the purple folder.
The next day, she'd taken away my stuffed animals.
She claimed I was too old for them.
But I knew it was punishment.
My father called Andre again.
When he explained what I'd said, Andre's voice became serious.
"Don't confront her about the paperwork yet. Preserve everything."
"What do you think she's doing?"
"I don't know. And I don't want to guess. Bring me what you have."
My father agreed.
Then Andre added something.
"Check whether she has access to any accounts or records involving Danielle's estate."
My father became still.
My mother's estate.
I didn't understand those words at eight.
But I knew my mother had left something for me.
Grandma Evelyn called it my future.
My father ended the call just as the doorbell rang.
Grandma stood outside.
She wore a gray cardigan and house slippers.
She had come so quickly that she'd forgotten to change her shoes.
The moment she saw me, she opened her arms.
"There is my baby."
I ran toward her.
She hugged me so tightly that I could feel her heart beating.
"Grandma, I tried to be good."
She pulled back.
"Who told you that you weren't?"
My face crumpled.
Grandma looked over my shoulder.
"Khalil?"
My father told her what had happened.
Not everything.
Just enough.
By the time he finished, Grandma's mouth was trembling.
She turned back to me.
"Ariana, listen carefully. You never have to earn the right to be treated kindly."
I started crying.
Grandma cried too.
My father knelt beside us.
"I'm going to fix this," he promised.
But Grandma shook her head.
"Don't make promises about things you can't control. Promise her what you can."
My father looked at me.
"Then I promise you this. I will listen. I will protect you. And I will never ask you to hide pain to make me happy."
I believed him.
For the first time in months, I truly believed him.
Grandma took me home that evening.
But before we left, she insisted my father take photographs of the kitchen.
The broken dinner plate.
The food on the floor.
The untouched meals at the island.
She also asked him to save copies of every recording somewhere Tiffany couldn't access.
"I don't trust that woman," Grandma said.
My father nodded.
"Neither do I."
At Grandma's house, I took a warm bath.
She washed my hair and made hot chocolate.
I slept in the bedroom where I'd stayed after my mother died.
There were yellow curtains and a bookshelf filled with stories.
Nothing had changed.
For a little while, I felt five years old again.
Safe.
Loved.
And allowed to be little.
The next morning, my father came over carrying two bags.
One contained my clothes.
The other contained something that made Grandma gasp.
A purple folder.
He placed it on her dining table.
"I found this in Tiffany's closet."
Grandma put on her reading glasses.
Inside were copies of financial documents, account statements, and several pages with my name.
One had a signature that looked almost like mine.
Almost.
My letters were big and uneven.
The signature on the paper was neat.
My father pointed at it.
"Ariana, did you write this?"
I shook my head.
"No."
Grandma looked at my father.
"Khalil, that's not her handwriting."
"I know."
He sat down heavily.
I watched him remove another document.
This one showed my mother's name.
Danielle Brooks.
Below it was a reference to a trust account.
My father explained that my mother had inherited money from her grandfather.
After she died, part of that money had been placed in a trust for me.
It was supposed to help pay for college and my future.
Grandma had helped establish it.
My father was responsible for managing the account until I became an adult.
Tiffany had never been appointed to manage any part of it.
But someone had attempted to change the account's mailing address.
Someone had also requested information about withdrawing money.
My father looked sick.
"She knew about the trust."
Grandma nodded.
"You told her about it when you got married."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I never gave her permission to touch it."
Grandma turned another page.
Then another.
And suddenly she stopped.
"What's this?"
My father leaned closer.
It was a copy of a letter addressed to a financial institution.
The letter claimed I was suffering from serious emotional difficulties.
It requested that certain future expenses be managed through a new household account.
The letter included my father's name.
And what appeared to be his signature.
He stared at it.
"That's not my signature."
Grandma looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
My stomach tightened.
"Am I in trouble?"
My father immediately reached for my hand.
"No, baby. You did nothing wrong."
"But my name is on it."
"Someone used your name without your permission."
Grandma carefully placed the document back on the table.
Then she asked a question.
"Khalil, where is Tiffany now?"
My father checked his phone.
"She texted that she's staying with her sister."
Grandma's expression darkened.
"Has she collected her belongings?"
"No."
"Has she asked about the folder?"
"Not yet."
Grandma took a slow breath.
"Then you need to call Andre."
My father picked up the phone.
Before he could dial, a message appeared.
It was from Tiffany.
He read it.
Then his face went pale.
Grandma reached across the table.
"What does it say?"
My father turned the screen toward her.
May you like
Tiffany had written:
"If you think those recordings are bad, wait until everyone hears what Ariana did. I have proof too."
