Three weeks after I left, my phone lit up with forty missed calls. Mom’s latest text read, “The card keeps getting declined at the jeweler. Fix it immediately.” Dad had ignored the accounting notices, and Chloe had left a voicemail screaming that I had humiliated her in front of the saleswoman. I waited until midnight, then typed one reply: “Come to Diane Fletcher’s office at ten tomorrow. Bring the company books.”
They arrived early, dressed like winners, and Dad dropped a thick binder on the table. “Go ahead, Olivia, audit us,” he sneered. Diane slid a single folder across the polished wood instead. Mom opened it, and the color drained from her face. Chloe leaned over her shoulder, then gripped the table edge. Inside was a signed bank record, and the account holder’s name was not my father’s.
