Chapter 3
Dad told me not to touch anything else on the laptop.
He photographed the screen, then called Evelyn back.
She asked us to preserve the device as it was and let the appropriate specialists examine it. Dad carried it downstairs without closing the lid.
Vivian stood beside the study door.
“Are we treating the whole house like a crime scene now?”
Dad stopped.
“We’re keeping a record of something Nia says she didn’t do.”
“You’re taking her word over the bank.”
“The bank is investigating.”
I held my bag with both hands.
For years, I had imagined what it would feel like if Dad defended me immediately.
Tonight, he was learning to do it carefully.
That mattered too.
In the car, neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then he said, “I’m sorry for how I came at you.”
I stared through the windshield.
“You thought I stole from you.”
“I saw your name.”
“You know me.”
He took a breath.
“I thought I did. Then I panicked.”
I wanted to forgive him at once because he sounded hurt.
I also wanted him to know how deeply it had hurt me.
“You made me feel like I had to prove I was your daughter.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded, but I did not say it was fine.
At Aunt Denise’s house, she opened the door before we knocked.
Dad must have called while I packed.
She took one look at my face and hugged me.
“You can tell me tomorrow,” she said.
I nearly cried again.
Dad set my bag inside.
He asked whether I wanted him to stay.
“Not tonight.”
He accepted that.
Before he left, he touched my shoulder.
“I’ll get answers.”
“Please get the true ones.”
“I will.”
The next morning, Denise made breakfast and sat across from me.
I told her everything.
She listened while I described the forms, the transfer, and Vivian’s remarks about my student loan.
“That woman remembers every vulnerable thing people tell her,” she said.
I looked up.
“You’ve noticed?”
“I’ve noticed she repeats them at useful times.”
Denise was my mother’s older sister. She had never fought openly with Vivian. I thought that meant she approved of her.
Now I wondered how much I had mistaken silence for agreement.
Dad called after breakfast.
The bank had secured his accounts and opened a formal review. Evelyn was meeting him at ten. He wanted me there.
I agreed.
At Evelyn’s office, I described exactly what Vivian had shown me when I signed.
She asked whether I had copies.
“No. Vivian said she would email them.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t think so.”
We searched my inbox together.
There was an email from Vivian three weeks earlier with an attachment titled Household Access.
The attachment was two pages.
Evelyn printed it.
Dad leaned forward.
The six-page folder from the house did not match the emailed version.
“Is that proof?” I asked.
“It’s evidence we need to examine,” Evelyn said. “We’ll compare the originals and the bank’s file.”
I appreciated the answer even though I wanted certainty.
She told me I should have independent advice because my interests might differ from Dad’s during the investigation. She referred me to an attorney named Camille Reed.
Dad did not object.
He said he would pay my consultation fee.
I hesitated.
“I don’t want that used against me later.”
He looked ashamed.
“It won’t be.”
Camille met me that afternoon.
She asked whether anyone else had access to my email, devices, identification, or phone.
“Vivian helped with the account setup. She used my phone to read a verification code.”
“Did she keep the phone?”
“Only a few minutes.”
“Did you approve anything during that time?”
“She said the code just confirmed my identity.”
Camille wrote it down.
Then she asked about my laptop.
I told her Vivian sometimes used it because her own was supposedly being repaired.
“How long?”
“A month.”
“Did you share your password?”
“Yes.”
I lowered my eyes.
“That was stupid.”
“It was trust,” Camille said. “We need to understand how it was used.”
That evening, Dad sent me copies of the bank’s initial transaction details.
The transfer went to a company called Harbor Lane Consulting.
I had never heard of it.
Denise searched the public business register.
The company had been formed four months earlier.
Its mailing address was a rented office downtown.
The owner listed was a man named Adrian Shaw.
I did not recognize the name.
Dad did.
When I called him, he went quiet.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Vivian’s cousin.”
I sat down.
Dad continued.
“He helped her organize some paperwork last winter. She said he did bookkeeping.”
“Did you ever authorize him to handle your accounts?”
“No.”
“Did she know you planned to use the money for the workshop?”
“Yes.”
I remembered Vivian asking Dad to delay buying the building.
She said it was too much responsibility.
She said the neighborhood did not need another project.
She said he should finally spend money on himself.
May you like
Dad had disagreed.
That was two weeks before she gave me access.
