Chapter 6
Detective Harris called me on a Thursday afternoon.
“Ms. Brooks, we'd like to discuss some information that has come to light. Are you available to come in?”
I arrived an hour later.
He explained that investigators had obtained additional records related to the suspected withdrawals and the attempted account changes. They were also reviewing communications that might establish who knew about the card and when.
“Has Darius admitted anything?” I asked.
“We've spoken with him. I can't share every detail of those interviews, but the investigation is continuing.”
I nodded.
Then he asked whether my father had ever handled my financial documents.
I described the incident from months earlier.
His expression became more serious.
“Did you authorize him to change your banking information?”
“No.”
“Did you give him permission to use your card?”
“Never.”
He wrote down my answers.
Before I left, he reminded me not to confront anyone about evidence I hadn't independently verified.
I understood why.
Still, I desperately wanted to know whether my father had been involved.
That evening, my mother arrived at Simone's apartment.
She looked exhausted. Her eyes were swollen, and her hands trembled as she held a small envelope.
Simone opened the door but didn't invite her inside immediately.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I need to see my daughter.”
I stepped into the hallway.
“Mom?”
She looked at me and began crying.
“I should have protected you.”
I didn't answer.
She handed me the envelope.
Inside was a printed email from my father to Darius, dated the evening before my card disappeared.
The message was brief.
It said that they needed to resolve the family's financial problems quickly and that Darius should take care of the outstanding payments before anyone else found out.
There was no explicit instruction to steal my card.
But the message made it clear that my father had known about the financial emergency before the withdrawals.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Your father printed it for Darius. I found it in the kitchen drawer.”
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“Because I was afraid.”
I looked at her.
“Afraid of what?”
“Losing everything.”
I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat.
“Mom, I already lost everything I had saved.”
She lowered her head.
“I know.”
“No, you don't. You watched me leave that house with one suitcase and no money. You let me believe I had nobody.”
She began sobbing.
I wanted to comfort her. That instinct had lived inside me for so long that it felt automatic.
But I didn't reach for her.
“I'm giving this to the detective,” I said.
She nodded.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
She looked up.
“Yes. I should have done it myself.”
For the first time, her apology didn't contain an excuse.
I took the email to Detective Harris the following morning. He accepted it as potentially relevant information and explained that investigators would verify its authenticity and context.
I left the station feeling both lighter and more frightened.
My father had always presented himself as the responsible one. He was the man who solved problems, made decisions, and demanded respect.
Now I was seeing the difference between being respected and being feared.
That afternoon, Darius called me.
I almost ignored him, but I decided to listen.
“Nia, please. I need you to understand something.”
“I'm listening.”
“Dad said he would handle everything. He told me the money would be replaced before you noticed.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
“You took my card.”
His breathing grew uneven.
“I know.”
“You threw my suitcase out of the house.”
“I was angry.”
“You told me I had served my purpose.”
He went silent.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered, “I shouldn't have said that.”
“You shouldn't have done any of it.”
“I know.”
For a moment, I heard the little boy who had once walked me home from school when older children teased me. I remembered him carrying my backpack and promising that nobody would ever hurt me while he was around.
That memory hurt more than his anger.
“Why did you do it, Darius?”
“Because I thought I could fix everything before it became a disaster.”
“You didn't fix anything. You made me pay for it.”
He started crying.
I had never heard my brother cry like that.
“I don't expect you to forgive me,” he said. “I just need you to know I'm going to tell them the truth.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then tell the truth because it's right, not because you want me to forgive you.”
“I will.”
After the call, I sat quietly beside Simone.
She didn't ask me what he had said.
She simply placed a cup of tea beside me.
May you like
I finally understood that forgiveness, if it ever came, would not erase what happened.
And it would never be a substitute for justice.
