Chapter 6
I found Tasha sitting on the back patio.
She was holding a coffee cup.
Her laptop rested beside her.
For a moment, I simply watched her.
Tasha had been part of my family for three years.
I'd helped her move into college.
Bought her textbooks.
Attended her graduation ceremony.
And told her repeatedly that she could ask me for help.
Now her name appeared on a document connected to unauthorized withdrawals from Malik's college savings.
I felt sick.
“Tasha?”
She looked up.
“Marcus.”
I sat across from her.
“We need to talk.”
Her expression changed.
“About what?”
I placed a copy of the document on the table.
She stared at it.
Then went pale.
“Where did you get that?”
My stomach tightened.
“From the account records.”
She looked away.
I took a breath.
“Did you witness me signing this?”
Silence.
“Tasha.”
Her eyes filled.
“No.”
My heart dropped.
“Then why is your name on it?”
She covered her mouth.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, “Mom told me to sign.”
I stared at her.
“What did she say?”
Tasha began crying.
“She said you'd already approved everything.”
I took a slow breath.
“And you believed her?”
She nodded weakly.
“At first.”
I looked at the document.
“Did you see anyone sign my name?”
She hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
She looked down.
“Mom got angry.”
My chest tightened.
Tasha continued.
“She said I was being disrespectful.”
I stared at her.
“And then?”
“She told me I needed to trust her.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Trust.
Used as a reason not to ask questions.
Tasha wiped her face.
“Marcus, I'm sorry.”
I looked at her.
“Did you know the money belonged to Malik?”
She began crying harder.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“When did you know?”
She swallowed.
“After the first withdrawal.”
I stared at her.
“And you said nothing?”
She shook her head.
“I was scared.”
I took a breath.
“Of what?”
“Mom said if I told you, she'd stop helping me with college.”
I looked away.
For a moment, I was furious.
Not because Tasha felt afraid.
But because both children had been taught that love and support could disappear if they told the truth.
I looked back at her.
“Tasha, you're an adult.”
She nodded.
“You had a responsibility to speak up.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I know.”
I softened my voice.
“But you can still tell the truth now.”
She looked up.
Then whispered, “There's more.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Tasha wiped her cheeks.
“Mom has been using Malik's money to pay debts.”
I froze.
“What debts?”
She hesitated.
“Business debts.”
I stared at her.
“Denise's consulting company?”
Tasha nodded.
My heart began pounding.
“How much does she owe?”
“I don't know exactly.”
I waited.
Then Tasha whispered, “More than twenty thousand dollars.”
I felt cold.
Twenty thousand.
Denise had told me her business was doing well.
She posted photographs from events.
Showed me contracts.
Talked about new clients.
But apparently, the company was struggling.
And she'd been using my son's money to keep it afloat.
I took a breath.
“Why didn't she ask me for help?”
Tasha looked down.
“She said you'd be disappointed.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because that explanation had become painfully familiar.
Denise didn't want me disappointed.
So she'd taken money from a sixteen-year-old.
I stood.
Then looked at Tasha.
“I'm going to share this information with the appropriate professionals.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
I continued.
“You should get independent legal advice about your role in those documents.”
Her eyes widened.
“Am I going to jail?”
I took a breath.
“I can't predict what will happen.”
She began crying.
“But telling the truth and cooperating matters.”
Tasha nodded.
Then whispered, “I want to make it right.”
I looked at her.
“Then start by being honest.”
The following day, I met Camille and Patricia again.
We reviewed the evidence.
The questionable authorization.
The financial transfers.
The disputed card purchases.
And Tasha's account.
Camille listened carefully.
Then said, “Marcus, we need to preserve the evidence and allow investigators to determine responsibility.”
I nodded.
“I understand.”
She continued.
“Your son's account may have been used without proper authorization.”
My chest tightened.
“And Denise's company received some of the money.”
“Yes.”
I looked down.
For a moment, I thought about every time I'd defended Denise.
Every time Malik seemed upset and I told him to be patient.
Every time my wife complained that he needed discipline.
I'd been so focused on keeping peace that I'd ignored the possibility that my son was hurting.
I felt ashamed.
That evening, I sat beside Malik on the living-room sofa.
He was watching a basketball game.
I looked at him.
“Buddy?”
He turned.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“Have you been happy here?”
He looked surprised.
Then stared at the television.
For a long time, he didn't answer.
Finally, he whispered, “Sometimes.”
My chest tightened.
“What about the other times?”
He looked down.
“Denise makes me feel like I'm in the way.”
I swallowed.
“How?”
“She complains when I eat too much.”
My heart broke.
“She says I use too much electricity.”
I closed my eyes.
“And she tells me I should be grateful you let me live here.”
Tears filled my eyes.
I turned toward him.
“Malik, this is your home.”
He nodded weakly.
I continued.
“You don't have to earn your place here.”
His lips trembled.
“Okay.”
I put my arm around him.
Then I told him something I hadn't said enough.
“I'm proud of you.”
He looked up.
“For what?”
“For working hard.”
My voice broke.
“For being kind.”
I swallowed.
“And for trying to handle things even when you were scared.”
He began crying.
I pulled him close.
“But I also need you to know something.”
He looked at me.
“You never have to handle fear alone.”
He nodded.
Then whispered, “I love you, Dad.”
My heart tightened.
“I love you too, son.”
For the first time in months, he seemed to relax against me.
But the next morning brought another discovery.
Patricia called with an update.
The disputed transfers had been traced farther.
Several payments went to Denise's consulting business.
Others went to an unfamiliar account.
I frowned.
“Whose account?”
Patricia hesitated.
“An entity called Reynolds Property Services.”
My stomach tightened.
Reynolds.
Tasha's last name.
I stared at the screen.
Then Patricia continued.
“The registered contact is Tasha Reynolds.”
May you like
My hands began shaking.
And suddenly, I realized Denise might not have been the only person benefiting from my son's money.
