Chapter 3
I did not enjoy the rest of Christmas.
I tried.
I sat beside the ocean.
Ordered grilled fish.
Watched couples dance beneath string lights.
But my mind stayed in Denver.
An account with my name.
Money I never received.
Thirty thousand dollars my mother claimed I owed.
I called Dad the next morning.
He answered on the second ring.
“Riley.”
“Jason said you found something.”
Dad sighed.
“Your mother asked me not to call you until you're home.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No.”
My father, Thomas Morgan, had always been quieter than Mom.
He avoided conflict so professionally that sometimes I wondered if he'd built his entire marriage around not being in the room when arguments started.
“What account?”
Silence.
“Dad.”
“I need to show you records.”
“Tell me first.”
He sighed again.
“About five years ago, money began leaving our joint savings account.”
“How much?”
“Small amounts initially.”
“How small?”
“Five hundred. A thousand.”
“For what?”
“Descriptions said Riley business.”
I sat upright.
“What?”
“Then there were larger transfers.”
“To where?”
“A checking account.”
“Whose?”
“The account title includes your name.”
My stomach turned.
“I have never had an account with you.”
“I know.”
“Did you transfer the money?”
“No.”
“Did Mom?”
Silence.
That was enough.
“Dad.”
“I don't know everything yet.”
“How much total?”
He took too long.
“How much?”
“Thirty-two thousand six hundred.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“You're telling me Mom moved thirty-two thousand dollars into an account using my name?”
“It appears that way.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Dad's voice became tired.
“That we'd discuss it when you return.”
I laughed bitterly.
“No. What did she say before that?”
“She said she was helping you.”
“Helping me how?”
“Your business.”
“My business has never received money from either of you.”
“I believe you.”
I closed my eyes.
That mattered.
“Then where is the money?”
“I don't know.”
“What bank?”
He told me.
Not mine.
Never had been.
“Can I see statements?”
“When you return.”
“Email them.”
“Riley.”
“Dad.”
He went quiet.
Then:
“Okay.”
Within ten minutes, I had six PDF statements.
The account title read:
RILEY MORGAN FAMILY SUPPORT.
My name.
But not my signature.
Not my Social Security number from what I could see.
The mailing address was Mom and Dad's house.
Deposits came from their savings.
Withdrawals went everywhere.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
A furniture store.
Credit card payments.
Cash withdrawals.
One recurring payment made my skin crawl.
JM ORTHODONTICS.
Jason's practice.
I called him.
“What?”
He sounded half asleep.
“Have Mom and Dad ever paid your practice?”
“Of course.”
“For what?”
“Dad had Invisalign.”
“How much?”
“Couple thousand maybe.”
“Did Mom ever pay from an account with my name?”
Silence.
“What?”
I sent him the statement.
He called back four minutes later.
“That payment wasn't for Dad.”
“What was it?”
“Emma's orthodontic savings plan.”
I stared.
“Emma was four.”
“Early intervention consultation and prepaid treatment account.”
“Why did Mom pay?”
Jason sounded uncomfortable.
“We were having cash-flow problems when the practice moved locations.”
“So she helped you.”
“Yeah.”
“Using an account named after me.”
“I didn't know that.”
Another transaction caught my eye.
ASPEN RIDGE CABIN RENTAL.
Three thousand eight hundred.
My heart stopped.
The Christmas cabin.
They had paid from the Riley Morgan Family Support account.
Not Jason.
Not Stephanie.
Mom.
Using money she had taken from her joint savings with Dad and disguised under my name.
I called Dad again.
“Did you know you paid for Jason's cabin?”
“What?”
I sent the transaction.
He went silent.
“That charge was supposed to be yours.”
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“Your mother told me you wanted to treat Jason and Stephanie.”
My anger sharpened.
“She told you I paid for their Christmas trip?”
“Yes.”
“Using your savings?”
“She said you were repaying money we'd advanced to your business.”
I closed my eyes.
The lie was almost elegant.
Mom transferred Dad's money into an account bearing my name.
Then spent it on family expenses while telling Dad the account represented repayments from me.
To Jason, she said she had paid.
To others, maybe she said I had.
Everyone saw whatever version made her look generous.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“How long has she been telling people you funded my business?”
He sounded ashamed.
“A while.”
“And you never asked me?”
“I thought it was private.”
“You believed I owed you money.”
“She said you were embarrassed.”
That was Mom's favorite strategy.
If anyone questioned why I wasn't confirming her story, she'd already explained my silence.
I sat on the hotel bed.
“What else did she say?”
Dad hesitated.
“Your rent deposit.”
“No.”
“Laptop.”
“No.”
“Marketing course.”
“I paid for that.”
“Student loans.”
“I paid them myself.”
His breathing changed.
“Oh God.”
“How much did she tell you?”
“About sixty thousand total.”
My stomach turned.
“Dad, where would you even get sixty thousand to give me?”
“Retirement savings.”
I stood.
“Did money leave your retirement account?”
“Not sixty.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“Where did it go?”
Silence.
I knew before he answered.
“To her.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she tell you?”
“That you needed capital.”
I walked to the balcony.
The ocean below looked peaceful.
I felt anything but.
“I never received one dollar.”
“I know that now.”
“Where did twenty-five thousand go?”
“I don't know.”
“Dad, this is fraud.”
He didn't answer.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you monitor your accounts?”
His answer hurt.
“I trusted my wife.”
There it was.
The same reason Jason trusted Mom about babysitting.
The same reason everyone accepted her version of my availability.
Mom controlled information.
Then converted trust into authority.
I booked an earlier flight.
Not because Mom summoned me.
Because I needed answers.
I landed in Denver late on December twenty-sixth.
Dad picked me up.
Alone.
He looked ten years older.
We drove silently.
Halfway home, he said:
“She knows I sent you statements.”
“Good.”
“She is furious.”
“Also good.”
Dad glanced over.
“Riley.”
“I am not doing the thing where her anger becomes the emergency.”
He nodded slowly.
At my apartment, the locks worked.
I had never loved a deadbolt more.
Dad came inside.
We spread statements across my kitchen table.
Five years.
Thirty-two thousand in the account.
Another twenty-five from retirement.
Nearly fifty-eight thousand dollars.
Some transactions clearly benefited Jason's family.
Others went to Mom.
Clothes.
Hotels.
Restaurants.
Cash.
Then one name appeared repeatedly.
CAROLINE MORGAN DESIGN LLC.
I frowned.
“Who is Caroline?”
Dad stared.
“Your mother's middle name.”
My heart sank.
“Does she have a business?”
“No.”
I searched Colorado records.
Caroline Morgan Design LLC existed.
Created six years earlier.
Registered agent:
Rebecca Simmons.
I knew Rebecca.
Mom's closest friend.
They volunteered together at church.
I opened more records.
The LLC had a mailing address at a private mailbox.
I looked at Dad.
“This is where the money went.”
His face went gray.
“Your mother does not own a design company.”
“Apparently she owns something.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Your father is with you.”
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“You had no right to dig through our finances.”
I looked at Dad.
He heard.
“They are his finances too.”
“This is between me and your father.”
“You used my name.”
“I did nothing illegal.”
“Then explain the account.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“I was managing family money.”
“Why was my name on it?”
“To keep things organized.”
I laughed.
“Organized for who?”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain Caroline Morgan Design.”
Silence.
Longer this time.
Dad closed his eyes.
Mom finally said:
“You have become incredibly ungrateful.”
There it was.
No answer.
Just character attack.
“For what?”
“Everything we did for you.”
“You mean everything you told people you did.”
She inhaled sharply.
“I will not be spoken to this way.”
“Then hang up.”
She did.
Dad stared at me.
I stared back.
For years, Mom had used guilt because everybody believed she was the family giver.
The organizer.
The rescuer.
The woman who solved everything.
Now I had financial records suggesting some of that generosity had been funded with Dad's savings while she attached my name to it.
Then Dad's phone buzzed.
Bank alert.
He looked down.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
$19,500 TRANSFER PENDING.
From their remaining joint savings.
Recipient:
CAROLINE MORGAN DESIGN LLC.
Dad whispered:
“She is emptying the account.”
I grabbed my laptop.
May you like
“Call the bank.”
For once, we weren't going to wait for Mom to explain.
