Chapter 7
I stared at the business records.
REYNOLDS PROPERTY SERVICES.
Registered contact: Tasha Reynolds.
The company had been created six months earlier.
Around the same time Malik began making monthly payments to Denise.
I felt sick.
I'd known Tasha wanted to start a business.
She talked about entrepreneurship constantly.
She showed me ideas for online retail.
Marketing.
Property management.
But she'd never mentioned this company.
I called Camille.
She advised me to review the records carefully before confronting anyone.
I agreed.
Then I asked Patricia to explain what we'd found.
She opened the transaction summary.
Several payments from Denise's company had been sent to Reynolds Property Services.
Some were labeled consulting fees.
Others were marked equipment reimbursement.
The total was significant.
But we couldn't yet determine whether every payment was improper.
I took a breath.
“Can we establish where the money went?”
Patricia nodded.
“We're tracing the transfers and reviewing supporting invoices.”
I looked down.
I wanted answers.
But I was tired of discovering new secrets.
The next evening, Tasha asked to speak with me.
We sat in the study.
She looked frightened.
“Marcus…”
I waited.
She took a shaky breath.
“I know you found out about my company.”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“I should've told you.”
I nodded.
“Why didn't you?”
She looked down.
“Because Mom said you'd think I was using you.”
I stared at her.
“Were you?”
She began crying.
“Not at first.”
The answer hurt.
I took a breath.
“Tell me what happened.”
Tasha wiped her cheeks.
“Mom helped me register the business.”
I nodded.
“She said it would let me earn money while I finished school.”
“What kind of business?”
“Event support and property staging.”
I frowned.
“Did you have clients?”
“A few.”
She looked down.
“But not enough.”
I waited.
“Mom said she could send me work through her company.”
My chest tightened.
“And the payments?”
Tasha began crying harder.
“Some were for real work.”
I nodded.
“And the others?”
She hesitated.
Then whispered, “She called them advances.”
I felt cold.
“Advances from what?”
Tasha stared at her hands.
“Malik's money.”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
My son.
Sixteen years old.
Working weekends.
Saving for school.
Being threatened with eviction.
While his savings supported businesses run by two adults.
I took a slow breath.
“Tasha, did you know where those funds came from?”
She began crying.
“Eventually.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“After Mom gave me the debit card.”
My chest tightened.
“And you kept accepting money.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I asked, “How much did you receive?”
She looked down.
“About four thousand dollars.”
My stomach dropped.
Four thousand.
Money that should've remained in Malik's savings.
I leaned back.
“Tasha, do you understand how serious this is?”
She nodded.
“I do now.”
I looked at her.
“You're twenty-two.”
She wiped her face.
“You had opportunities to refuse.”
She began crying harder.
“I know.”
I took a breath.
“But you can still take responsibility.”
She looked up.
“How?”
“Tell the truth to the professionals investigating the transactions.”
She nodded.
“And work toward repaying what you received improperly.”
Her eyes filled.
“I will.”
For a moment, she looked younger than twenty-two.
Scared.
Ashamed.
Unsure what would happen next.
I felt sad.
But I couldn't let sympathy erase accountability.
I looked at her.
“Malik trusted you.”
She covered her mouth.
“I know.”
“He thought you were his sister.”
Tasha began sobbing.
“I know.”
I stood.
Then walked toward the window.
For years, I'd believed blending our family meant giving everyone equal affection.
But I'd confused generosity with trust.
I gave Denise access to finances without checking the details.
I helped Tasha without expecting transparency.
And I assumed Malik was fine because he rarely complained.
I had made mistakes.
Serious ones.
But I wasn't going to keep making them.
The next morning, I met with a family-law attorney.
I explained the eviction threat.
The financial concerns.
And the emotional pressure Malik had experienced.
The attorney listened carefully.
Then asked, “What do you want?”
I took a breath.
“I want my son to feel safe in his own home.”
She nodded.
“And your marriage?”
I looked down.
“I don't think it can survive this.”
She waited.
Then I continued.
“I loved Denise.”
My voice broke.
“I thought she loved Malik too.”
The attorney's expression softened.
“But the facts you're describing raise serious concerns.”
I nodded.
We discussed separation.
Property arrangements.
Financial protections.
And how to avoid involving Malik unnecessarily in adult disputes.
I agreed to cooperate with any appropriate investigation.
I also arranged counseling for my son.
Not because something was wrong with him.
Because he'd been living with fear.
And I wanted him to have someone safe to talk to.
That afternoon, I picked him up from school.
He looked surprised to see me.
“Dad?”
I smiled.
“Hey, buddy.”
He climbed into the car.
“Why are you here?”
I laughed.
“Because I wanted to pick you up.”
He stared at me.
“Really?”
My heart tightened.
“Really.”
For years, I'd relied on drivers.
Family members.
And Denise.
I told myself I was providing a good life.
But I'd missed ordinary moments.
School pickups.
Afternoon conversations.
Small opportunities to ask how he was doing.
I took a breath.
“Want to get burgers?”
Malik smiled faintly.
“Sure.”
We drove to his favorite restaurant.
He ordered a cheeseburger and fries.
I ordered the same.
For a while, we talked about school.
His favorite teacher.
A history project.
A basketball game.
Then he looked at me.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Am I still allowed to work?”
I smiled gently.
“Of course, if it's not interfering with school and you're enjoying it.”
He nodded.
“I like earning my own money.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“But I don't want Denise to take it again.”
My chest tightened.
I reached across the table.
“We've secured your account.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“And the money that's missing?”
“We're working through the proper process to recover it.”
He nodded.
Then whispered, “Okay.”
For the first time in weeks, I saw hope in his eyes.
But that evening, when we returned home, Denise was waiting.
She stood beside the living-room fireplace.
Her face was pale.
In one hand, she held a letter.
She looked at me.
“Marcus, what have you done?”
I frowned.
“What?”
She raised the letter.
“Someone has contacted my bank about fraud.”
I took a breath.
“The transactions are being investigated.”
Her eyes widened.
“You reported me?”
I looked at her.
“I reported disputed transactions involving my son's money.”
She stared at me.
Then whispered something that made my stomach tighten.
May you like
“You have no idea what you've started.”
And for the first time, I realized Denise might be more afraid of what investigators would find than of losing our marriage.
