Chapter 3
My father didn't tell me the total immediately.
He stood beside the kitchen counter, staring at his phone.
His face looked gray.
"Dad?"
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
"How much money?"
He swallowed.
"Peter is coming over."
"Why?"
"Because I need to see the records."
His voice sounded strange.
Not angry anymore.
Just exhausted.
I watched him walk toward his office.
The door remained open.
That was unusual.
For years, Dad's office had been the one room Denise insisted nobody enter without permission.
She claimed she was protecting important business documents.
Now I wondered whether she'd been protecting something else.
I followed Dad.
He sat behind his desk and opened his laptop.
His hands moved quickly across the keyboard.
Then he stopped.
"Something's wrong."
"What?"
"My business banking password isn't working."
My heart began racing.
"Can Denise change it?"
Dad looked at me.
"She shouldn't be able to."
He tried again.
Nothing.
Then he reached for his phone.
A new notification appeared.
His face tightened.
"Someone updated the account security settings yesterday."
I felt cold.
"Yesterday?"
He nodded.
"While I was at the construction site."
I remembered Denise leaving the house around noon.
She'd been dressed in her expensive green blazer.
When I asked where she was going, she told me to mind my own business.
Now I wondered whether that trip had anything to do with the bank.
The doorbell rang twenty minutes later.
Peter Collins stood outside carrying a laptop bag.
He'd worked with Dad for nearly ten years.
He was a tall Black man in his fifties with glasses and a calm, serious manner.
But that evening, he looked deeply worried.
"Marcus," he said. "We need to talk."
Dad led him into the office.
I started to leave.
But Dad stopped me.
"Maya, stay."
I looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded.
"You found the first statement. You deserve to know what's happening."
Peter sat across from Dad.
He opened his laptop.
"I've reviewed the transactions we can currently access."
Dad leaned forward.
"Tell me."
Peter took a breath.
"Over the past eleven months, there have been multiple transfers from Carter Construction to accounts connected with Silver Oak Properties."
Dad closed his eyes.
"How much?"
Peter looked uncomfortable.
"One hundred and ninety-six thousand dollars."
I gasped.
Dad didn't move.
Peter continued.
"That's before we account for the personal credit card spending."
Dad stared at him.
"How much is that?"
"Approximately thirty-two thousand dollars in expenses that need clarification."
The room spun.
More than two hundred thousand dollars.
I couldn't imagine that much money.
Dad had worked hard his entire life.
He left before sunrise most mornings.
Sometimes he came home so tired he fell asleep in his work clothes.
And while he was building homes for other families, someone inside his own house had apparently been draining his savings.
"Could those transfers be legitimate?" Dad asked.
Peter nodded carefully.
"Some may have been authorized, but I haven't found supporting invoices or signed approvals for many of them."
Dad rubbed his face.
"Denise has been helping with administrative work."
Peter looked at him.
"That may explain her access. It doesn't explain the missing documentation."
I sat quietly.
Then a thought occurred to me.
"Peter?"
He turned.
"Yes, Maya?"
"Can you see who owns Silver Oak Properties?"
He hesitated.
"I found a public business filing."
He turned the laptop toward us.
A company registration appeared.
I leaned closer.
One name stood out.
Tasha Reynolds.
Denise's daughter.
I stared at the screen.
"Tasha?"
Dad sat forward.
"What?"
Peter pointed at the filing.
"Tasha is listed as the company's managing member."
The silence was unbearable.
I remembered Tasha laughing at me for wearing the same sneakers for two years.
I remembered her telling Denise that Dad should stop paying for my extracurricular activities.
And now her name was connected to a company receiving thousands of dollars from his business.
Dad looked at Peter.
"Does Tasha own property?"
"According to the records I've located, Silver Oak Properties acquired a townhouse eight months ago."
My stomach twisted.
"A townhouse?"
Peter nodded.
"An expensive one."
Dad's voice became almost inaudible.
"Where?"
Peter read the address.
It was in a gated community about forty minutes away.
I recognized the neighborhood.
Tasha had posted pictures there on social media.
She always claimed she was visiting a friend.
Now I understood.
Dad leaned back.
For a long time, he didn't speak.
Then he whispered:
"I paid for a house I didn't even know existed."
Peter looked sympathetic.
"We still need to verify the actual source and use of the transferred funds."
Dad nodded.
"Then let's verify everything."
He called the bank.
Peter helped him report suspicious activity and begin securing the accounts.
They contacted the bank's fraud department.
Dad also arranged an appointment with a business attorney.
I sat quietly, watching him work.
But I couldn't stop thinking about something.
If Denise and Tasha had been hiding an entire townhouse, what else were they hiding?
After Peter left, Dad ordered food.
We ate at the kitchen table.
It was the first dinner in months where Denise didn't criticize what I put on my plate.
Dad noticed I was eating slowly.
"Sweetheart, are you hungry?"
I nodded.
"Then eat."
I hesitated.
He frowned.
"What is it?"
I looked down.
"Denise usually says I shouldn't eat after seven."
Dad froze.
"Why?"
"She says I'll get fat."
He stared at me.
"You're seventeen."
I shrugged.
"She says that's old enough to control myself."
Dad pushed his own plate away.
"Maya, has she been restricting your food?"
I felt embarrassed.
"Sometimes."
He rubbed his forehead.
"How often?"
I couldn't answer.
Because the truth was humiliating.
Sometimes Denise counted how many eggs I used.
Sometimes she locked the pantry.
Sometimes she told me I'd already eaten enough, even when I hadn't.
Dad stood abruptly.
I flinched.
He noticed.
His face crumpled.
"Oh, sweetheart."
He sat beside me.
"I'm not angry with you."
I began crying.
"I know."
He wrapped an arm around me.
"You never have to ask permission to eat in your own home again."
I leaned against his shoulder.
He stayed there until I finished dinner.
That night, he asked me to bring him the notebook I'd mentioned.
I retrieved it from beneath my mattress.
It was a cheap blue notebook filled with dates and short entries.
I handed it to him.
He opened the first page.
I watched his expression change as he read.
There were entries about Denise making me clean Tasha's bathroom.
About being excluded from shopping trips.
About being told I couldn't invite friends over.
About Denise saying my late mother had spoiled me.
Dad stopped reading.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Why did you keep all this?"
I swallowed.
"Because sometimes I started believing it was normal."
He closed the notebook.
Then he hugged me.
"I'm going to make this right."
I wanted to believe him.
But before I could answer, headlights swept across the living room.
A car had pulled into the driveway.
Dad looked toward the window.
It was Denise.
And she wasn't alone.
A man in a dark suit stepped out of the passenger seat.
He carried a leather briefcase.
Denise walked confidently toward the front door.
Dad stood.
A moment later, the doorbell rang.
When he opened it, Denise smiled coldly.
"Marcus, this is Mr. Howard. My attorney."
Dad stared at her.
May you like
Denise lifted her chin.
"And before you accuse me of anything else, you should know I've already taken steps to protect my financial interests."
