Chapter 8 - The Church Tribunal
Darlene tried to slam the parlor door in our faces, but Harold caught the heavy oak frame with his calloused hand, pushing it open with calm authority.
“We aren't here to fight, Gloria,” Harold said, using her given name—a sign that the patriarch was drawing a permanent line in the dirt. “We’re here to settle accounts. Literally.”
Wade walked past his mother into the small back office where the family filing cabinets were kept. Without hesitation, he unlocked the bottom drawer using a key he had kept since his college days. He pulled out two thick manila folders labeled Estate & Trust Allocations.
He walked back into the kitchen and tossed the folders onto the island right where Darlene’s griddle used to sit.
“What is this?” Darlene demanded, stepping forward with a flash of her old imperious fire.
“This is proof of financial fraud, Mother,” Wade said, looking down at the papers. “You told me for years that Grandpa Bellamy’s education trust was split equally among all four grandchildren. But according to these records—signed by you as executor—you redirected every cent of the secondary distribution earmarked for Blythe into Trent’s kids' private academy funds.”
Darlene’s face went chalk white. She reached out a trembling hand as if to snatch the folders back, but Harold stepped between her and the counter.
“That’s federal mail fraud and embezzlement of a minor’s trust, Darlene,” Harold said quietly. “You had church members convinced you were a saint, while you were stealing from an eight-year-old orphan—excuse me, an eight-year-old granddaughter—because you couldn't stand the fact that she didn't share your precious bloodline.”
“I protected this family!” Darlene shrieked, the mask finally shattering entirely as she slammed her fists onto the kitchen counter. “You don't understand what it takes to keep a name respectable in this town! Corinne came out of nowhere with a child who doesn't belong to our bloodline! She trapped my son! She forced her way into our legacy!”
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I stepped out from behind Wade, my voice cutting through her hysterical rant like a scalpel.
“I didn't trap anyone, Darlene,” I said, stepping right up to the counter until I was looking her directly in the eyes. “Wade chose me. And he chose my daughter. The only person trapped here is you—locked inside a prison of your own snobbery and bitterness. And as of this morning, your church knows it, your husband’s brother knows it, and soon, the district attorney’s office will know about these financial records unless every cent you stole from Blythe’s trust is restored by sundown.”
