Chapter 3
I didn't go downstairs immediately.
My first instinct was to rush into the hallway and confront whoever was moving beneath us.
But Amelia was sleeping beside me.
One hand rested against my sleeve.
Even in sleep, she was holding on.
I gently moved her hand and tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
Then I locked my bedroom door.
I opened my phone again.
The photograph was clear.
Amelia stood in our laundry room wearing her blue school uniform.
Beside her was a large bucket.
Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows.
The expression on her face was what hurt most.
She looked exhausted.
Not annoyed.
Not bored.
Exhausted.
I typed a reply.
Who are you?
The response arrived almost immediately.
Someone who tried to help.
I stared at those words.
Then I wrote:
How did you get that picture?
A minute passed.
She made your daughter clean the floors after school. I saw it through the window when I came to return something.
She?
My mother.
I asked for a name.
No answer.
Then another message appeared.
Look in the basement office. The gray cabinet. Bottom drawer.
I slipped my phone into my pocket.
Before leaving, I called my friend Daniel Brooks.
Daniel and I had known each other since college.
He was an attorney.
More importantly, he was someone I trusted.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"Gabriel? Everything okay?"
"No."
I explained the forged authorization.
The photograph.
Amelia's notebook.
Daniel listened without interrupting.
Then he said, "Do not destroy anything. Photograph every document. Keep the originals somewhere secure."
"I think my parents are hiding records in the basement."
"Don't confront them alone if things are escalating."
"They're downstairs."
"Then call the police if you feel threatened."
I looked toward Amelia.
"I need to know what happened to my daughter."
Daniel's voice softened.
"I understand. But protect her first."
I promised to call him in the morning.
Then I went downstairs.
The kitchen lights were off.
The dining room was empty.
But a narrow strip of light glowed beneath the basement door.
I approached quietly.
My mother's voice drifted upward.
"He doesn't know about the other account."
I stopped.
Father answered.
"You said those records were gone."
"They will be."
A drawer slammed.
"You should have told him months ago," Father said.
"Don't start blaming me."
"We never should have used Nora's trust."
Mother gave a bitter laugh.
"Nora made sure that girl would inherit everything. Even after she died, she found a way to control this family."
My hand tightened around the banister.
Father sounded exhausted.
"That money was for Amelia."
"That money was sitting there."
I felt my stomach turn.
Then Mother said, "Besides, Patricia said nobody checks those invoices."
Patricia.
I recognized the name.
Patricia Voss had been our family's financial adviser for nearly seven years.
She had helped Nora organize her estate.
She had also recommended Westbridge.
I heard footsteps approaching the stairs.
I stepped into the dark hallway and waited.
Mother emerged carrying a folder.
When she saw me, she gasped.
"Gabriel!"
I switched on the light.
"What other account?"
Her face went blank.
"What?"
"The one you don't want me to find."
Father appeared behind her.
"Son—"
"Don't."
I looked at the folder in Mother's hand.
"Give me that."
She pulled it against her chest.
"These are private documents."
"They're in my house."
"That doesn't make them yours."
"Are they connected to Amelia's trust?"
Mother said nothing.
I took out my phone.
"Then I'll call the police and let them decide."
Father stepped toward her.
"Marlene. Give him the folder."
She stared at him.
For a moment, I thought she might strike him.
Instead, she threw the folder onto the floor.
Paper scattered across the hallway.
"Fine!" she shouted.
I knelt and gathered the pages.
Most were invoices.
The same company name appeared again and again.
BrightPath Family Support Services.
Home developmental sessions.
Behavioral monitoring.
Respite supervision.
Specialized educational assistance.
Every invoice listed Amelia as the patient.
Some dates corresponded to weeks when I had been home.
Others covered times when Amelia was at school.
The amounts were enormous.
I looked at Father.
"What is BrightPath?"
His voice cracked.
"A business account."
"Whose business?"
He looked at Mother.
She stared back.
"Answer him," I said.
Father swallowed.
"Your mother's."
For a moment, I heard nothing.
Then the meaning became clear.
My mother had created a company to bill my daughter's trust for services she never provided.
I looked down at the invoices again.
"How much?"
Mother folded her arms.
"We were entitled to reasonable compensation."
"How much did you take?"
She refused to answer.
Father whispered, "I think it's over two hundred thousand."
The hallway seemed to tilt.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Money Nora had set aside for our daughter's future.
I gripped the railing.
Mother continued speaking.
"You spend half your life on airplanes. Someone had to raise her."
I looked at her.
"By making her eat on the floor?"
She scoffed.
"Stop using that as an excuse to attack me."
I stepped toward the front door.
"Get your coats."
Father looked confused.
"Where are we going?"
"You're leaving. Now."
Mother laughed.
"This is my son's house."
"My house," I corrected. "Amelia's home. Not yours."
She raised her chin.
"You cannot throw your parents onto the street."
"I can arrange a hotel. And I am doing it."
She looked toward the stairs.
"What about the girl?"
"Don't go near her."
For the first time, my mother seemed afraid.
Not of losing Amelia.
Of losing control.
I called a nearby hotel and reserved a room.
Father packed two suitcases.
Mother refused to move until I told her I would request police assistance if necessary.
Twenty minutes later, they stood on the porch.
Rain fell behind them.
Father looked at me.
"I'm sorry, son."
I wanted to believe him.
But all I could see was Amelia on the kitchen floor.
"Why didn't you stop her?"
He lowered his head.
"I should have."
I closed the door.
Then I locked it.
I returned to the basement office.
The gray cabinet stood against the far wall.
Its bottom drawer was locked.
I searched the desk and found a small brass key taped beneath the center drawer.
It fit.
Inside were two envelopes, a flash drive, and a photograph of Nora.
The photograph showed my wife holding newborn Amelia.
I felt my throat tighten.
Underneath it was a document bearing Nora's signature.
A letter.
The first line read:
If anything happens to me, Gabriel, there is something you need to know about your mother.
May you like
I sat down.
And began reading.
