Chapter 4 - The Recording My Sister Never Knew ExistedThree days later, I returned to my parents' house.
I hadn't been inside for almost two years.
Nothing had changed.
The same marble foyer.
The same enormous staircase.
The same photographs of Brenda everywhere.
Brenda at Yale.
Brenda at graduation.
Brenda at her wedding.
Brenda with her husband.
Brenda pregnant.
Brenda holding her first child.
My photographs were absent.
Not one.
My mother greeted me stiffly.
“Why are you here?”
“We need to talk.”
She glanced toward the living room.
“Your father isn't home.”
“I know.”
Her expression changed.
“How?”
“Because I called his office.”
She stepped aside.
I entered.
My childhood home suddenly felt like a museum dedicated to someone else's life.
Mother poured coffee.
“You've always been dramatic.”
“I was accused of professional fraud.”
“We were concerned.”
“You filed a complaint.”
“We didn't know whether you were actually licensed.”
“You could have checked.”
She looked away.
“I suppose we could have.”
“Why didn't you?”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“Because your father was frightened.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing everything.”
That was the first honest thing she had said.
“What did he do?”
My mother began crying.
I wasn't prepared for that.
She covered her face.
“Your father borrowed against the company.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
She shook her head.
“He said everything would be fine.”
“Mother.”
She finally looked at me.
“Thirty-eight million dollars.”
The number hit me like a physical blow.
“Debt?”
She nodded.
“Some of it.”
“And the rest?”
“Private investors.”
I sat down.
“Why would he risk that much?”
“Because he thought the company would recover.”
“Did it?”
She didn't answer.
I already knew.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“He thought your grandfather's foundation could cover it.”
I felt sick.
“That's why he needs my signature.”
“Yes.”
“And when I wouldn't sign?”
“He said you had become difficult.”
“Difficult.”
My mother cried harder.
“He said if your professional reputation was damaged, you'd be easier to control.”
I stared at her.
“So you let him file the complaint.”
She whispered:
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“Because you're my daughter.”
I looked at her.
“That isn't an answer.”
She wiped her tears.
“I was afraid.”
“Of Dad?”
“Yes.”
“And Brenda?”
Another silence.
Then she said:
“Brenda knew.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course she did.
Before I left, I asked one final question.
“Where is the original trust?”
My mother pointed upstairs.
“Your father's study.”
I went up.
The study door was locked.
I smiled bitterly.
Then I remembered something.
My grandfather had once taught me how to open that exact door when I was twelve.
He had hidden a spare key behind the brass clock.
I found it.
Inside the desk, beneath old tax files, was another folder.
But before I could open it, I heard footsteps.
Brenda.
She entered the room and froze.
“What are you doing?”
I held up the folder.
“Looking for the truth.”
She stared at it.
“You always think you're smarter than everyone.”
“No.”
I stepped toward her.
“I just stopped pretending you were.”
Her face twisted.
“You think being a lawyer makes you special?”
“No.”
I placed the folder on the desk.
“Being honest does.”
She lunged for it.
I stepped back.
She grabbed the folder.
“You have no idea what you're doing.”
“I know about the $38 million.”
Her face went white.
“I know about the transfers.”
She stopped breathing.
“And I know you helped file the complaint.”
She whispered:
“Dad said you would destroy us.”
I looked at her.
“No, Brenda.”
I walked toward the door.
“You destroyed yourselves.”
Behind me, she screamed.
“You think you're going to take everything?”
I turned.
“No.”
May you like
I smiled.
“I'm going to find out where everything went.”
Related Stories
