The flight is $2,500 each. My mom said, “If you can’t afford it, stay behind.”

I nodded, then got an alert. My credit card had been used for four business class tickets, not mine. I opened my app, hit dispute all, and locked the account. My dad showed up at T my apartment. I did not.

The flight is $2,500 each, my mom said, looking right through me as if I were a ghost. If you cannot afford it, stay behind. I simply nodded and finished my water while my brother smirked.

But 3 hours later, my phone lit up with a fraud alert. My credit card, the one I had not touched in 5 years and had left in a safe box at my parents house, had just been charged $10,000 for four business class tickets on Qatar Airways. Not for me, for them.

I did not scream. I did not call them to demand an explanation. I simply opened my banking app, hit the button that said dispute transaction, and reported the card as stolen. They wanted a vacation. I was about to give them a federal investigation.

My name is Jada, and at 30 years old, my family still thought I was a broke data entry clerk, barely scraping by in a studio apartment. They had no idea I was actually a senior forensic accountant for one of the biggest firms in Chicago, specializing in highlevel corporate fraud.

It started at the Capital Grill last Friday. My mother, Lorraine, had insisted on this dinner for weeks, claiming it was urgent. I arrived 10 minutes early, dressed in my usual work attire, a simple black blazer and slacks that my mother always called bland.

When my family finally arrived 20 minutes late, they made an entrance that turned every head in the restaurant. My mother was wearing a fur coat despite it being 50° out, and my father, Vernon, walked in with his chest puffed out like he owned the building.

Trailing behind them were my older brother Trayvon and his wife Jessica. Jessica flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder and handed her coat to the waiter without making eye contact. Trayvon, my brother, the so-called tech entrepreneur who had not launched a single product in 4 years, winked at me.

“Hey, little sis,” he said, sliding into the leather booth, still driving that dented Honda I saw in the valet line.

I took a sip of my iced tea and smiled. It gets me from point A to point B. Trayvon, not all of us need to lease a Range Rover to feel important.

My mother slammed her hand on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “Stop it, Jada,” she hissed. “We are here to celebrate, not to listen to your jealousy. Tonight is about legacy.”

I stayed silent. In my family, legacy was a code word for spending money. We did not have to impress people we did not like.

My father, Vernon, cleared his throat and adjusted his silk tie. He looked around the room, making sure the other diners noticed him. As a high school principal, he thrived on being the center of attention.

“We have some big news,” he announced. “Next month is our 35th wedding anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to take a family trip. A real trip, not just down to Florida. We are going to the Maldes.”

My mother clapped her hands together, her diamond bracelets clinking. “It is going to be magnificent, Jada. Overwater bungalows, private chefs, and most importantly, we will be meeting up with Jessica’s parents there. It is time our families truly bonded on a level befitting our status.”

Jessica smiled, showing off her perfectly whitened teeth. “My dad is so excited,” she said. “He has been saying that the Maldes is the only place one can truly relax away from the noise of the city.”

I looked at Jessica and felt that familiar tightening in my chest. She always spoke about her family as if they were Kennedy’s. But as a forensic accountant, I had a habit of noticing things others missed.

Like the way she used three different credit cards to pay for lunch last week, or the way her designer bags never quite held their shape right.

“That sounds expensive,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

My mother rolled her eyes. “Quality costs money, Jada. Something you would know if you had a little more ambition. We have already booked the flights. Business class on Qatar Airways. The tickets are $2,500 per person.”

She paused and took a long sip of her red wine, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim.

“Now we have covered Travon and Jessica because Travon is currently reinvesting all his capital into his startup. He is building something for the future. But you, Jada…” She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my plain wristwatch. “If you want to come, you will have to pay for your own ticket, and the villa share is another 3,000. If you cannot afford it, stay behind. We will tell Jessica’s parents you had work obligations.”

The table went silent. Travon suppressed a laugh. Jessica looked at me with that fake sympathy that was worse than cruelty.

“Oh, Jada,” she said, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “Do not feel bad. Maybe next year you can join us if you save up. It is probably better this way. You would feel out of place anyway.”

I looked at them. My father, who was busy checking his reflection and his spoon. My mother, who was already typing on her phone, probably posting a status update about family blessings. My brother, who was 33 years old and still asking our parents for rent money, and his wife who treated me like the hired help.

They saw a failure when they looked at me. They saw a quiet, mousy girl who crunched numbers for minimum wage.

They did not know that my bonuses alone last year were more than my father’s annual salary. They did not know that the Honda Civic was a choice I made because I preferred investing in real estate over depreciating assets. They did not know that I could have bought everyone at this table a ticket to the Maldes and not even notice the money leaving my account.

I took a deep breath. “You are right, Mom,” I said calmly. “$5,000 is a lot of money for me right now. I think it is best if I stay behind. Enjoy the trip.”

My father nodded approvingly. “That is mature of you, Jada. Knowing your place is a virtue.”

The rest of the dinner was a blur of them discussing swimwear and which influencers they wanted to emulate. I paid for my own salad and left early, claiming I had a headache.

When I got to the valet, the attendant brought around my 2015 Honda. I tipped him $20 and drove home to my apartment in downtown Chicago. My building was secure with a door man and heated garage, but my family had never visited me here. They stopped visiting 3 years ago when I refused to cosign alone for Trevan’s second failed business venture.

I walked into my apartment kicking off my heels. The space was modern and minimalist with floor toseeiling windows overlooking the city skyline. It was my sanctuary.

I poured myself a glass of water and sat down on my beige sofa, ready to decompress. I was actually relieved I did not have to go. A week on an island with my mother critiquing my hair and Jessica making subtle comments about my skin tone sounded like torture.

I was about to turn on the TV when my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Then it buzzed again and again.

I picked it up expecting a text from my mom asking why I did not pay for the valet for everyone. But it was not a text. It was a series of push notifications from my banking app.

I stared at the screen. $10,000 pending.

My heart hammered against my ribs, not out of fear, but out of pure shock. I unlocked my phone and opened the app. The card number ended in 4098. I frowned. I did not have a card ending in 4098 in my wallet.

I walked to my home office and pulled open the file cabinet where I kept my active cards. Nothing.

Then I remembered five years ago when I first started at the firm and got my first significant promotion. I had applied for a premium travel card with a high limit. I had used my parents address because I was in between apartments at the time.

When the card arrived, I had just moved out after a huge fight with my dad. I had left a box of paperwork and personal items in my old bedroom closet. I assumed the card was lost or expired. I had never activated it, or so I thought.

I sat back down, my mind racing as the pieces clicked together. My mother had gone into my old room. She had found the card. She must have seen the expiration date was still valid, but to use it, she would have needed to activate it.

She would have needed my social security number and my mother’s maiden name. Well, she was my mother, so she had the maiden name. And as for the social security number, my father had all our documents in his home office safe.

They stole my identity.

The realization was cold and sharp. They sat across from me at dinner, watched me eat my salad, listened to me say I could not afford the trip, and all the while they knew. They knew they had already bought their tickets on my dime.

That was why Trayvon was smirking. That was why my mom was so insistent on the price.

They were mocking me. They thought I was so checked out of my finances, so broke and disorganized that I would not notice the charge until the statement came in the mail a month later.

By then, they would be sipping coconuts in the Maldes.

I looked at the time. It was 9.30 p.m. The transaction had gone through 10 minutes ago. They must have booked it immediately after dinner, ensuring the seats were locked in.

I could picture them right now at my parents’ house, clinking champagne glasses, toasting to their cleverness. To Trayvon getting a free ride, to Jessica getting her luxury vacation, to Jada the fool paying for it all.

My finger hovered over the call button next to my mother’s name. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drive back over there and throw the phone in their faces.

But then my training kicked in. I am a forensic accountant. I do not act on emotion. I act on evidence.

If I called them now, they would deny it. They would say it was a mistake. Or worse, they would gaslight me into thinking I had offered to pay and forgot. They would guilt trip me. You are rich, Jada. you can afford it helps the family.

No, this was not a family dispute. This was theft, wire fraud, identity theft.

I took a deep breath and opened the transaction details. There was a button at the bottom of the screen, dispute transaction. I tapped it.

A menu popped up asking for the reason. I scrolled past incorrect amount and duplicate charge. My thumb landed on the option that would burn the bridge forever. fraud. Stolen card.

The app asked for details. Do you have this card in your possession? No. Did you authorize this transaction? No.

Do you know who might have made this transaction? I paused. I could type in their names. But the bank did not need names yet. They just needed to know if it was fraud.

I selected yes for the unauthorized use.

The final screen warned me. By submitting this claim, you are declaring under penalty of law that this charge is fraudulent. The bank will immediately cancel this card and initiate a criminal investigation if necessary.

I looked at the family photo on my mantle, the one taken 10 years ago before Jessica, before the money, before the bitterness. I looked at my father’s smile. I thought about the slap in the face I received at dinner.

Stay behind, she had said.

Okay, Mom. I will stay behind, and so will you.

I pressed submit. The screen loaded for a second. Then a green check mark appeared. Dispute submitted. Card ending in 40 to 98 has been locked. Attempted charges will be declined.

I closed the app and set the phone down face down on the table. The room was silent.

I walked to the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine, a nice vintage I had been saving. I poured a glass and took a sip, letting the rich liquid coat my tongue.

Tomorrow they would head to JFK airport. They would pack their designer suitcases. They would post their airport selfies. And when they walked up to that counter to check in, they were going to learn a very expensive lesson about forensic accounting.

I sat there in the dark watching the city lights and waited for the morning to come.

The next 24 hours were the most peaceful of my life and yet the most chaotic for my family.

While they were frantically packing their designer suitcases and calling car services, I was sitting in my living room wearing a charcoal clay mask and sipping a glass of Soignyong Blanc. I had set my phone to do not disturb for everyone except my food delivery driver, but I did not completely cut myself off.

I had one window open into their world, Jessica’s Instagram page. My sister-in-law lived her entire life through the lens of her phone camera. If she drank a coffee, she posted it. If she bought a new lipstick, she unboxed it for her 3,000 followers, most of whom were bought she paid for.

I knew for a fact that she would not be able to resist live streaming their grand departure. And I was right.

At 4 in the afternoon, my phone chimed with a notification. Jessica is live.

I cast the video to my 65-in television so I could watch the disaster unfold in high definition. The video opened with Jessica’s face filling the screen. She was wearing oversized sunglasses indoors and a white cashmere tracksuit that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

Behind her, I could see the chaos of the international terminal at JFK.

“Hey guys,” she chirped, waving at the camera with her perfectly manicured hand. “We are finally here at the airport about to check in for our dream vacation to the Maldes. It has been such a crazy week, but you know, we work hard, so we play hard. Show them the luggage, babe.”

The camera panned clumsily to my brother Trevon, who was struggling to push a cart stacked high with Louis Vuitton trunks. He looked stressed but forced a smile when he saw the red recording light.

“First class lifestyle only,” he said, trying to sound smooth, but his voice cracked slightly.

Behind him, my mother, Lorraine, was barking orders at my father.

“Vernon, be careful with my hatbox. That is vintage.”

She turned to the camera and adjusted her silk scarf. We are just so blessed to be able to take this time away to recharge. It is so important to prioritize family and luxury.

I took a sip of my wine and laughed. They looked ridiculous. They were playing the part of the wealthy dynasty so well that they had actually convinced themselves it was real.

They truly believed that the credit card swipe from last night was the end of it. They thought I was sitting at home crying over my budget while they jetted off to paradise.

They had no idea that I had already severed the lifeline.

I watched as they approached the Qatar Airways business class check and counter. It was the priority lane with the red carpet. I could see the smug look on my mother’s face as she bypassed the long line of economy passengers.

She held her head high, looking down her nose at a tired mother struggling with the stroller in the regular line. That was Lorraine.

She did not just want to be rich. She wanted everyone else to know they were poor.

The agent behind the counter was a young woman with a polite smile. Jessica kept the camera rolling, propping it up against a pile of luggage so her followers could see the entire interaction. This was her moment. She wanted to capture the upgrade the champagne the exclusive lounge access.

Instead, she was about to capture a felony in progress.

“Passports, please,” the agent said.

I watched on my TV as my father handed over the stack of passports with a flourish. We are all together, he announced loudly enough for the people behind him to hear. Four for male.

The agent typed on her keyboard. The rhythmic clicking sound was audible even through the live stream. Then the clicking stopped. Her smile faltered.

She frowned and typed something else, hitting the enter key harder this time.

“Is there a problem?” My mother asked, her tone instantly shifting from gracious to annoyed. We specifically requested window seats on the right side of the aircraft.

The agent looked up. Her face was no longer friendly. It was professional and cold.

“Sir, there is an issue with the payment method used for these tickets. The transaction has been flagged.”

My father laughed a nervous booming sound. That is impossible. It is a platinum card. Run it again.

“I have run it twice, sir,” the agent said. “The bank has declined the charge. And there is a note here from the issuer. This card has been reported as stolen and used fraudulently.”

The silence that fell over the group was deafening. Even through the screen, I could feel the oxygen leave the space.

Jessica gasped and grabbed the phone quickly ending the live stream. The screen went black, but I did not need to see what happened next.

I knew the protocol. When a charge is flagged as high value fraud at an airport, it is not just a declined card. It is a security incident.

I waited. 5 minutes passed. Then 10.

Then my phone began to vibrate. It was Trayvon. I let it ring. He called again and again. On the fourth try, I decided to answer.

I paused the movie I had started and put the phone on speaker.

“Hello,” I said, keeping my voice.

His voice was high-pitched and panicked. I could hear sirens in the background. Or maybe it was just the airport announcements, but it sounded like chaos.

“I am on the phone, Trayvon,” I said, checking my nails. “Why are you yelling? I thought you guys were sipping champagne in the lounge by now.”

“Stop playing games, Jada,” he shouted. “We are at the counter. The card declined. They are saying it is stolen. The police are walking over here right now, Jada. You need to call the bank right now. Tell them it was a mistake. Tell them you authorized it.”

I let out a long dramatic sigh.

“What are you talking about, Trayvon? What card?”

“The card ending in 1498,” he hissed. “The one mom found in your room. The travel card. We used it to book the flights. Just call them and unlock it. We will pay you back when we get the investment money next month. I swear. Just fix this.”

I sat up straight on my couch, the clay mask tightening on my skin.

“Let me get this straight, Trayvon. You are telling me that you and mom went into my old bedroom, went through my personal files, found a credit card that belongs to me, and used it to spend $10,000 without asking me. And now you want me to tell the bank that I said it was okay.”

“Yes,” he screamed. “We are family, Jada. Do not do this to us. Mom is crying. Jessica is hyperventilating. Everyone is staring at us. Fix it.”

I smiled. “No.”

“What do you mean no?” he yelled.

“I mean, no, Trayvon. I did not buy those tickets. I did not authorize that charge. If I call the bank and say I did, I would be lying. And unlike you, I do not commit fraud.”

“You little witch.”

My father’s voice came onto the line. He had grabbed the phone from Trayvon.

“Jada listen to me. This is your father speaking. You are embarrassing this family. You are humiliating us in public. I order you to call the bank this instant. If we miss this flight, I will never forgive you.”

“You stole from me, Dad,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You stole $10,000 from your daughter. You did not ask. You just took because you think everything I have belongs to you.”

“Well, it does not. That money is mine. That credit is mine. And the consequences are yours.”

“Jada, please.”

Jessica’s voice broke in. She sounded terrified.

“They are asking for our IDs again. The TSA guys are here. They are talking about detaining us for questioning. Please, Jada. I cannot go to jail. I have a brand to protect.”

I laughed out loud.

“A brand? You are a thief, Jessica. That is your brand now.”

I hung up the phone. I did not just hang up. I blocked the number. Then I blocked dad, then mom, then Jessica.

I poured myself another glass of wine and went to the window looking out at the Chicago skyline.

I could only imagine the scene at JFK.

The Port Authority police would have arrived by now. Since the amount was over $5,000, it was a felony level investigation. They would not be arrested on the spot necessarily, but they would be detained. They would be taken to a small windowless room. They would be questioned separately. They would have to explain why they were in possession of a payment instrument that did not belong to them.

They would eventually be released because family fraud is a gray area that usually requires the victim to press formal charges in person.

But their trip was over. The airline would cancel the tickets permanently. They would be blacklisted from the flight and the worst part for them would be the walk of shame. They would have to walk back out of the terminal past the long lines of economy passengers they had just sneered at, pushing their carts of Louis Vuitton luggage back to the curb. They would have to call a cab because their car service had already left. They would have to ride all the way back to the suburbs in silence, knowing that they had been caught.

But the real kicker was the fine. Since the tickets were non-refundable and cancelled due to fraud, the airline would likely charge a penalty, plus the airport security fee. They were probably out a few thousand of their own money just for the privilege of being humiliated.

I slept like a baby that night.

The next morning, I woke up to a quiet phone. No texts, no missed calls, just peace.

I made myself a matcha latte and opened my laptop to check my work emails. But before I could log in, I saw a notification from a cousin in our extended family group chat.

Did you guys see Lorraine’s post? She wrote.

It was a screenshot of a status update my mother had posted at 3:00 a.m. It read, “The devil is working hard to tear this family apart. We were targeted by a malicious banking error and forced to cancel our trip. We are heartbroken, but we know that God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers. Please pray for us as we deal with betrayal from within our own circle.”

I snorted into my coffee. Banking error. That was what they were going with. They were spinning the narrative already. They were the victims. I was the villain.

They were going to come for me. I knew it.

My father would not take this lying down. He was a man who prided himself on control, and I had just stripped him of it in the most public way possible.

I checked my building security app. Everything was quiet in the lobby.

But I knew they were coming.

They had to come back from the airport sometime. They would sleep for a few hours stew in their anger, and then they would come to my door. They would want an apology. They would want to scream at me in person since I had blocked their calls.

Let them come, I thought.

I looked up at the corner of my living room where the small blinking red light of my security camera sat nestled in the bookshelf. I had installed it months ago, not for burglars, but because I had a feeling this day would come.

My family thought this was a fight about a vacation. They thought it was about money.

They did not realize that for me this was a war for my independence.

I had spent 30 years being the doormat, being the backup plan, being the wallet they dipped into whenever they wanted to feel rich.

Yesterday, I closed the wallet. Today, I locked the door.

The pounding on my door sounded like a police raid. It was 2:00 in the morning. I had been asleep for maybe 3 hours, drifting in that peaceful space between dreams and reality where my family did not exist.

But they had a way of shattering peace.

I sat up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I checked the monitor on my nightstand. The lobby camera showed my father arguing with Earl, the night door man. My father was waving his arms, his face distorted with rage, while Trayvon paced behind him like a caged animal.

Jessica was leaning against the wall, looking exhausted and checking her reflection in the lobby mirror.

I pressed the intercom button. “Earl, send them up.”

I could hear Earl’s hesitation through the speaker. “Miss Jada, they are very agitated. I can call the police right now if you want.”

“No, Earl, let them come. If they want to show, let us give them a front row seat.”

I grabbed my silk robe, wrapping it tight around my waist like armor. I did not turn on the main lights. I liked the shadows. They made me feel invisible and observant.

I walked to the living room just as the elevator dinged down the hall.

They did not knock this time. My father kicked the door.

I unlocked it and opened it before he could damage the hinges. Vernon stood there still wearing his suit from the airport, but now it was rumpled. His tie was loose and sweat beated on his forehead. He looked like a man whose world was crumbling, and he needed someone to blame.

“That someone was me.”

“You little witch,” he roared, pushing past me into the apartment.

The smell of stale airport coffee and nervous sweat filled my clean living room. Trayvon followed him, his eyes bloodshot. Jessica trailed in last, dragging her carry-on bag across my hardwood floor, leaving a black scuff mark.

“How dare you?” my father screamed. He turned to face me, his chest heaving. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

“We were detained for 4 hours. Jada. They treated me like a criminal. Me, a principal, a pillar of this community.”

I leaned against the kitchen island, crossing my arms. “You are a criminal, Dad. You used a stolen credit card. That is called fraud. The police treat fraudsters like criminals. It seems the system is working perfectly.”

He lunged. It happened in slow motion. I saw the muscles in his neck tighten. I saw his hand raise.

In the past, when I was a child, I would have flinched. I would have cowed and let him hit me because I thought I deserved it.

But I was not a child anymore. I was a 30-year-old woman who boxed three times a week at an executive gym.

As his hand came down, aiming for my face, I stepped to the side. Smooth, calm. His hand hit the empty air and his momentum made him stumble forward, crashing into the edge of my granite countertop.

He let out a grunt of pain and clutched his side.

“Do not touch me,” I said, my voice low and steady. “If you ever try to hit me again, you will leave this apartment in handcuffs.”

Trayvon rushed to help dad up, glaring at me.

“Look at you,” he spat. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you? You are jealous because mom and dad actually love us. You are jealous because I am building a legacy and you are just a lonely number cruncher. We missed a meeting with a top investor in the Maldes because of you. That trip was for business, Jada. You just cost this family millions.”

I laughed. A dry, humorless sound.

“There was no investor, Trayvon. I saw your business plan. It is a slide deck full of buzzwords and zero product. You were going to the Maldes to take pictures for Instagram, and you wanted me to pay for it.”

Jessica stepped forward. Then she had been quiet, scanning my apartment with a look of disdain.

She walked over to my sofa, running her hand over the fabric. She looked at the empty walls, which held only two pieces of very expensive abstract art. She looked at my minimalist shelving.

To her untrained eye, my apartment looked empty. She did not know that the sofa was Italian leather imported from Milan. She did not know the art was worth more than her entire wardrobe.

She saw lack of clutter and assumed poverty.

“You know, Jada,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “I get it now. I look at this place and I understand why you are so bitter. It is sad really. You live like this, so sparse, so cold.”

She gestured around the room.

“In my family, we support each other. If my brother needed money, my father would give it without blinking. But I guess things are different for you people.”

I stiffened.

The room went deadly silent. Even Vernon stopped groaning.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What do you mean by you people?”

Jessica shrugged, checking her nails. “You know, your community. I know growing up in certain environments makes it hard to understand loyalty. You guys always seem to be fighting each other instead of sticking together. It is a crab in a bucket mentality, right? That is what Trayvon calls it. I just think it is a shame you cannot rise above your nature to help your brother.”

I looked at Trayvon. He looked away.

He let his wife stand in my living room and insult our entire race just to justify his greed. He let her use stereotypes to cover up his theft.

That was the moment any lingering guilt I had about the airport evaporated.

“Get out,” I said.

My father straightened up, adjusting his jacket. “We are not going anywhere until you call the bank. You are going to call them right now. Put it on speaker and tell them it was a mistake. You are going to tell them you gave us the card or so help me God. Jada, I will make sure everyone in this city knows what an ungrateful daughter you are. I will ruin you.”

I walked over to the light switch on the wall, but instead of turning on the overhead lights, I pointed up to the corner of the ceiling.

In the shadows, a small red light was blinking. Pulse, pulse, pulse.

Vernon squinted. “What is that?”

“That,” I said, “is a 4K resolution security camera with audio recording. It uploads directly to a cloud server that only I can access.”

I watched the color drain from his face.

“It has been recording since you walked in,” I continued. “It recorded you kicking my door. It recorded you admitting that you stole my card. It recorded you trying to assault me.”

I took a step closer to him.

“You are the principal of Lincoln High School, right? You are always talking about discipline and character. I wonder what the board of education would think if they saw a video of Principal Vernon attacking his own daughter at 2:00 in the morning. I wonder what the parents would think. I wonder if you would still have a pension after they fire you for moral turpitude.”

Vernon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at the camera, then back at me.

His arrogance was gone, replaced by pure terror. He knew I had him. He knew that in the era of social media, a video like that would end his career before breakfast.

Trayvon looked nervous. “Jada, you wouldn’t. This is family business.”

“It became legal business when you committed a felony,” I said. “Now get out of my house, all of you, and take your wife and her scuff marks with you.”

My father backed away towards the door, his eyes never leaving the red light. He looked small.

For the first time in my life, the giant who had terrified me with his shouting was just a small, frightened old man.

“You will regret this,” he whispered.

“But there was no power in it.”

I opened the door and held it wide. “I already regret knowing you, Dad. Goodbye.”

Jessica hurried out first, keeping her head down. Trayvon followed, muttering curses under his breath.

My father paused at the threshold. He looked at me one last time, searching for the daughter who used to beg for his approval. He did not find her. He found a stranger who was stronger than he would ever be.

He walked out. I slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

My hands were shaking, but not from fear, from adrenaline.

I walked back to the kitchen and poured the rest of the wine down the sink. I did not need alcohol. I needed a clear head.

I went to my laptop and pulled up the security feed. I saved the clip. I backed it up to three different hard drives. I named the file Vernon assault evidence MP4.

I sat there in the dark watching the clip replay. I watched his hand raise. I watched me dodge. I watched the fear in his eyes when I pointed at the camera.

They thought this was over. They thought they could just walk away and regroup.

But they did not know what I was planning for tomorrow.

The airport was just a warning. The camera was just a shield.

Tomorrow I was going to pick up the sword.

I opened my email and started a new draft. Subject formal inquiry into unauthorized real estate transactions.

I was done being the victim. It was time to find out exactly how deep their betrayal went. And I had a feeling that the credit card was just the tip of the iceberg.

I looked at the time, 300 a.m. The banks would open in 6 hours. I needed to get some sleep. I had a lot of hunting to do in the morning.

The morning sun hit the floor to ceiling windows of my corner office on the 45th floor, casting long shadows across my mahogany desk. To my family, I was a data entry clerk. To the partners at Sterling Advance, I was the sharpest forensic accountant in the division, a woman who could find a missing nickel and a billion dollar merger.

I loved this office. It was quiet. It was orderly. It was everything my childhood home was not.

I adjusted my silk blouse and opened a spreadsheet, ready to dive into a complex tax evasion case involving a pharmaceutical giant. I took a sip of my black coffee, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.

For a moment, I felt safe.

Then my phone vibrated against the glass desktop. It was a short, sharp buzz, then another. Then a continuous stream of vibrations that sounded like an angry hornet trapped in a jar.

I glanced at the screen. It was the family group chat, the one I had muted a year ago but never left because I needed to keep an eye on them like a zookeeper watching the lions. Notification after notification rolled in. Auntie Sarah, cousin Malcolm, Deacon Jones—people I had not spoken to since Christmas were suddenly very interested in my life.

I picked up the phone, my stomach tightening. I opened the Facebook app first, knowing exactly where the poison was coming from.

There it was, posted at 6:00 a.m.: a photo of my mother Lorraine sitting at her kitchen table looking disheveled and tear-eyed, holding a Bible. The caption was an essay, a manifesto of victimhood.

The post read, “Lord, give me strength for the enemy is not at the gate. He is in the house. I never thought I would see the day when my own flesh and blood would turn on us. We raised her. We sacrificed for her. We gave her the best education while we went without. And how does she repay us? By sabotaging her brother’s future. By calling the police on her own father. By stealing our joy and humiliating us before the world. Typical crab in a bucket mentality. She cannot stand to see her brother rise so she drags us all down. Please pray for my husband Vernon who is suffering from heart palpitations due to the stress caused by his ungrateful daughter Jada. Satan is busy but we are blessed.”

She had tagged everyone—the pastor, the entire deacon board, my old high school teachers, even the lady who made the potato salad for the church picnics. She wanted to make sure that in our tight-knit community, I was marked.

I was the villain.

I scrolled down to the comments. They were nauseating.

Auntie Sarah wrote, “Shame on her, Lorraine. You did your best. Some apples just rot on the branch.” Cousin Malcolm, who had borrowed $500 from me two years ago and never paid it back, wrote, “That is messed up, auntie. She always thought she was better than us.” A woman from the choir wrote, “Praying for you, sis. Ungrateful children are a curse.”

I put the phone down. My hands were trembling slightly, not from sadness, but from rage. She had weaponized the church against me. She had taken a story about them stealing $10,000 from me and twisted it until I was the abuser.

She mentioned my father’s heart palpitations. That was a nice touch. Vernon had the heart of an ox, but he knew how to play the frail elder when it suited him.

I was about to close the app when my work email pinged. It was a high priority notification. I frowned. It was only 9:00 a.m. Usually, the urgent emails did not start until after lunch.

I clicked on it. It was from the executive assistant to Mr. Sterling, the senior partner of the firm.

Subject: meeting request immediate message.

“Miss Jada, please come to Mr. Sterling’s office immediately. Bring your laptop.”

My blood ran cold. Mr. Sterling never called junior associates directly. He certainly never called for immediate meetings without an agenda.

I looked at my phone again. Had someone sent the Facebook post to my boss? No, that was impossible. My family did not know where I worked. They knew I worked downtown, but I had never told them the name of the firm, specifically to avoid situations like this.

I stood up, smoothing my skirt. I walked down the long corridor of the firm, passing the glass-walled conference rooms. My colleagues nodded at me as I passed, but I felt like everyone was staring. Did they know? Had the rumor mill started already?

I arrived at Mr. Sterling’s office. His assistant, a stern woman named Martha, looked at me over her glasses.

“Go right in, Jada. He is waiting.”

I opened the heavy oak door. Mr. Sterling was standing by the window looking out at Lake Michigan. He was a man of few words, a legend in the forensic accounting world.

He turned when I entered, holding a piece of paper.

“Sit down, Jada,” he said, his voice unreadable.

I sat, keeping my back straight. I ran through the list of my current cases. Had I made a mistake? Had I missed a deadline?

“We received an interesting email this morning,” Mr. Sterling said, placing the paper in front of me. “It was sent to the general ethics hotline, but because of the severity of the allegations, it was flagged directly to me.”

I looked at the paper. It was a printout of an email from an address like justice for all [email protected].

The subject line read, “Fraudal alert employee Jada.”

The text was riddled with grammatical errors and capitalized words.

“To whom it may concern. You have an employee named Jada working for you. You need to investigate her immediately. She is a thief. She steals from her own family. So, imagine what she is doing to your clients. She has a history of mental instability and lies about her finances. She is currently under investigation by the police for domestic abuse against her elderly father. She is not who she says she is. Fire her before she steals your money. To a concerned citizen.”

I read it twice. The room spun.

It was Trayvon. The phrasing, the bad grammar, the accusation of domestic abuse—which was a twisted reference to me dodging my father’s slap last night—it was all him.

He had found out where I worked, probably by looking at my LinkedIn profile, which I thought I had blocked him from. But he must have used a fake account.

He was trying to get me fired.

He knew that a forensic accountant needed a pristine reputation. An accusation of theft or police investigation could lead to an immediate suspension pending review. He wanted to cut off my income. He wanted to break me.

I looked up at Mr. Sterling, waiting for the axe to fall. I prepared my defense. I prepared to tell him about the credit card, the assault, everything.

Mr. Sterling leaned back in his leather chair and took off his glasses. He looked at the email. Then he looked at me, and then he smiled.

“Do you know what the first rule of forensic accounting is, Jada?” he asked.

“Follow the digital footprint,” I whispered.

“Exactly.” Mr. Sterling tapped the paper. “This email was sent anonymously. Or so the sender thought. But as you know, our firm’s firewall automatically traces the IP address of all incoming external complaints to assess credibility.”

He slid a second piece of paper across the desk. It was a technical report. It showed the origin of the email.

“IP address 1 192168145. Internet service provider Comcast Xfinity. Registered subscriber Vernon and Lorraine, Washington. Address 452 Maple Avenue, Oak Park, Illinois.”

Mr. Sterling raised an eyebrow.

“Unless I am mistaken, Jada, that is the address listed in your HR file as your emergency contact, your parents’ home.”

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.

“Yes, sir. That is my parents’ house.”

Mr. Sterling shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his face.

“I have seen corporate espionage, Jada. I have seen partners stab each other in the back for a bonus. But I have never seen a family try to destroy their own daughter’s career with such clumsiness.”

He stood up and walked over to the shredder in the corner. He took the email from my hand and fed it into the machine.

The loud whirring sound was the sweetest music I had ever heard.

“We do not tolerate slander here, Jada,” he said over the noise. “And we certainly do not take advice from people who use capital letters for emphasis.”

“You are the best forensic accountant I have. Your integrity is not in question.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

“However,” Mr. Sterling continued, sitting back down on the edge of his desk, “it is clear that you are dealing with a significant personal crisis. A crisis that has now attempted to breach the walls of this firm.”

“I can handle it, sir,” I said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

“I know you can handle it, Jada, but you should not have to handle it while worrying about spreadsheets.” He picked up a file folder. “You have accrued 6 weeks of paid vacation time that you never use. I am putting you on mandatory leave, effectively immediately.”

I started to protest. “Sir, I cannot leave the pharmaceutical case.”

“The case can wait. Your war cannot.” Mr. Sterling looked me in the eyes. “Jada, these people, whoever they are to you, they are not playing games. They just tried to take your livelihood. If they are willing to do that, they are hiding something—something they are afraid you will find with that paycheck of yours.”

He handed me the file.

“Go home. Take a week. Take two. Use the skills we taught you. Follow the money. Find the leverage, and do not come back until you have cleaned house. Do you understand me?”

I stood up slowly, taking the file. I looked at this man—my boss—who had shown me more loyalty in five minutes than my blood relatives had shown me in thirty years.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. And Jada,” he added, “if you need a good lawyer for anything civil, let me know. I know a few sharks who owe me favors.”

I walked out of his office feeling lightheaded.

I was not fired. I was armed.

My family had tried to nuke my career and instead they had just freed up my schedule.

I went back to my desk and packed my laptop. I put an out of office reply on my email.

“I am currently away on personal business. I will be unreachable.”

I walked out of the building and into the bright Chicago sunlight. I checked my phone again. The hate messages were still rolling in. My mother had posted a second update claiming I had hacked her account to make her look bad.

I hailed a taxi to city hall.

I told the driver Trayvon wanted a war. He wanted to talk about investigations. He wanted to talk about theft.

Fine.

I had the next 14 days completely free.

I was going to the Hall of Records. I was going to pull every single document with the name Washington on it. I was going to look at mortgages, liens, loans, and tax filings.

Mr. Sterling was right. They were desperate. You do not try to get someone fired unless you are terrified of what they might buy or what they might see.

I took out my phone and sent one text message, not to my family, but to my assistant.

“Please cancel my gym membership for the month. I won’t be needing to box. I have a new target.”

The taxi merged into traffic. The sadness was gone. The shock was gone. All that was left was the cold calculation of a forensic auditor looking at a balance sheet that did not add up.

They wanted the accountant. They were about to get the auditor, and I was going to audit their entire lives down to the last penny.

The Cook County Recorder of Deeds is a building that smells of old paper dust and bureaucratic indifference. It is a place where dreams are filed away in manila folders and where secrets go to hide in plain sight.

Most people think that secrets are kept in whispers or locked diaries. But I know better. Secrets are kept in public records. They are hidden in the fine print of property leans and the notorized signatures of loan documents. Anyone can find them if they know where to look, and I knew exactly where to look.

I walked through the heavy revolving doors, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. I was no longer Jada the daughter. I was Jada the auditor.

The emotional part of my brain, the part that wanted to curl up and cry because my father had tried to slap me, had been shut down. In its place was the cold, calculating machine that Sterling and Vance paid me a fortune to operate.

I approached the clerk’s window. The woman behind the glass looked tired, surrounded by stacks of files. She did not look up when I approached.

“I need to pull the property records for 452 Maple Avenue,” I said, my voice steady. “I need the full history, deeds, mortgages, leans, and releases.”

The clerk sighed, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Are you the homeowner?”

“I am a party of interest,” I said, handing over my ID and the request form I had filled out in the lobby. “And I am willing to pay the expedited fee for certified copies.”

That got her attention. She took the form and typed the address into her computer, the machine word, and groaned.

I waited, my hands clasped behind my back. I looked around the room. There were couples there holding hands, looking up their first home purchase. There were developers looking for land to flip. They all looked hopeful.

I wondered if they knew that a house was not just a home. It was a leverable asset. It was a piggy bank that could be smashed open.

“Here we go,” the clerk said.

She printed out a summary sheet and walked back into the archives. Five minutes later, she returned with a thick file folder.

“You can view them at the table over there,” she said. “If you want copies, mark the pages.”

I took the file. It felt heavy in my hands. Heavier than paper should feel.

I carried it to a wooden table in the corner under a flickering fluorescent light. I sat down and took a deep breath.

I was about to open Pandora’s box.

I opened the folder.

The first few documents were standard. The original deed from 30 years ago when my parents bought the house. A satisfaction of mortgage from 10 years ago when they paid off the original loan.

I remembered that day. My father had thrown a barbecue to celebrate being debt-free. He had given a speech about building generational wealth. He had looked so proud.

I flipped past that.

Then I saw it.

A document dated October 15th, 3 years ago. Mortgage deed lender First National Bank of Illinois, borrower Vernon Washington and Lorraine Washington.

I scanned down to the amount. My breath hitched.

$150,000.

They had taken out a second mortgage against the house, a home equity loan. But why?

My father had a pension. My mother worked part-time. Their expenses were low. Or why did they need that much cash 3 years ago?

I turned the page to look at the signature block, and that was when the room stopped spinning. That was when gravity seemed to double, pulling me down into the chair.

There were three signatures on the loan.

Vernon Washington, Lorraine Washington, and Jada Washington.

I stared at the name, my name written in blue ink.

It was a good forgery. I had to give them that. They had practiced. The J had the same loop I used. The slant was almost perfect.

But I knew my own hand. And I knew for a fact that on October 15th, 3 years ago, I was in London on a business trip auditing a hedge fund. I have the passport stamps to prove it. I was 4,000 mi away when this document was signed.

I looked at the line below the signature.

Coer, guarantor.

They had made me a co signer.

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle slammed together with violent force. Three years ago, my parents’ credit scores had taken a hit because they had bought a luxury SUV they could not afford. They would not have qualified for a loan of this size on their own.

They needed a third party, someone with pristine credit, someone with a high income to debt ratio.

Me.

They had used my identity to secure the loan. They had stolen my financial reputation to mortgage their house.

But the horror did not stop there. A loan is just a loan until you find out where the money went.

I flipped to the dispersement statement. This document showed exactly who received the cashier’s check from the bank.

Pay to the order of Trev Solutions LLC.

I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to close my eyes.

Trevon.

Trev Solutions was my brother’s company. The startup he claimed was the next Facebook. The startup that never launched a product, never had a client, and never made a dime.

He had told everyone he had secured seed funding from an angel investor in Silicon Valley. He had bragged about it at Thanksgiving dinner that year.

“I am a self-made man,” he had said, popping a bottle of champagne. “I went out and got the funding on my own.”

Lies, all lies.

The angel investor was not from Silicon Valley. The angel investor was his parents’ house and his sister’s stolen identity.

He had burned through $150,000 in 3 years. On what?

Luxury cars, designer clothes, dinners at Nou, trips to Miami, and now trips to the Maldes.

He had eaten the equity of our family home. He had swallowed his inheritance before my parents were even dead, and my parents let him.

That was the part that cut the deepest. My father, the man who slapped me for disrespecting the family, had signed his name right next to the forgery of mine.

He knew.

He watched someone, probably my mother, fake my signature, and he signed right next to it. They had sat in a room with a notary public and lied to their face.

Wait, a notary?

I looked at the notary stamp at the bottom of the page. State of Illinois. Commission expires 2024. Marcus D. Henderson.

Marcus—my brother’s best friend since high school. The one who now worked as a loan officer at the bank.

Of course, it was a conspiracy. A tight little circle of fraud.

Trayvon needed money. My parents needed to give it to him but could not qualify. Marcus needed a commission. So they all agreed to sacrifice me.

They used Jada. Jada the reliable. Jada the quiet. Jada who would never check public records because she trusted her family.

They had turned me into a mule, an unwilling guarantor for their bad decisions.

If they stopped paying this mortgage, the bank would not just take the house. They would come for me. They would garnish my wages. They would seize my assets. They would destroy the credit score I had spent a decade building.

And since the loan was three years old, and they were clearly struggling, hence the foreclosure notice I had seen earlier, that meant the default was already happening.

My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone and took highresolution photos of every page. The forgery, the dispersement, the notary stamp.

I felt a cold rage settle in my chest.

This was not just about a vacation anymore. This was financial violence. They had put a gun to my financial head and pulled the trigger 3 years ago. I was just now hearing the bang.

I stood up and walked back to the clerk.

“I need certified copies of all of these,” I said. “And I need a copy of the foreclosure notice that was filed last week.”

The clerk looked at me. She saw the look on my face. It was a look she had probably seen a thousand times in this building, the look of someone who has just realized they have been betrayed by the people they loved most.

She did not ask any questions. She just nodded and started stamping the papers.

Clack clack clack.

The sound of the stamp was like a gavvel coming down.

I paid the fee with my own debit card. I took the heavy envelope of certified documents. I walked out of city hall and stood on the steps.

The wind was blowing off the lake, cold and biting. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself.

I had the evidence of the crime. I had the who, the what, and the where. Who, my parents and brother. What, bank fraud, wire fraud, forgery, and identity theft were. First National Bank of Illinois.

I looked at the time. It was 1:00 in the afternoon. The bank branch where Marcus worked was only six blocks away.

I could go to the police right now. I had enough to have them all arrested by dinner time.

But an arrest was too quick, too messy, and honestly, too kind. If they went to jail, they would play the victim. They would cry about the system. They would blame me for snitching.

No, I wanted something more absolute. I wanted to dismantle their lies one by one. I wanted to look Marcus in the eye and watch him crumble. I wanted to trace every single cent of that $150,000 and prove that it did not go to business expenses, but to Jessica’s handbags and Trayvon’s ego.

I hailed a taxi.

“Where too?” The driver asked.

“First National Bank,” I said, “and wait for me. I won’t be long.”

The First National Bank of Illinois was designed to intimidate. It had marble floors that clicked loudly under your heels and high vated ceilings that made you feel small. But as I walked through the revolving glass doors, I did not feel small. I felt like a predator entering a cage where the prey was already trapped.

I clutched the envelope from city hall against my chest. Inside were the certified copies of the forged mortgage deed, proving that my family had sold me out for $150,000. But a forgery was just the gun. I needed to find the bullet. I needed to know where the money went.

I scanned the lobby. It was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon.

In the back corner behind a desk with a fake mahogany finish, sat Marcus Henderson. Marcus had been my brother Traven’s best friend since high school. They were cut from the same cloth. Both charming, both loud, and both allergic to hard work.

While Traven played at being a CEO, Marcus played at being a banker. He wore a suit that was too shiny and a watch that was too big, trying to project an image of success that his commission checks could not support.

I walked straight to his desk. He was busy typing on his phone, probably checking sports scores or texting Travon. He did not look up until I pulled the chair out and sat down.

The screech of the chair legs against the floor made him jump.

“Jada,” he said, blinking in surprise. His smile was automatic, a practiced customer service grimace. “What are you doing here?”

“Travon didn’t say you were coming by.”

“Hello, Marcus,” I said, placing the heavy envelope on his desk. “Travon doesn’t know I am here. This is a surprise inspection.”

Marcus laughed nervously, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the envelope, then back at me.

“Look, Jada. I heard about the airport drama. Travan told me everything. He said you were pretty upset about the credit card thing, but honestly, coming down to my job is a bit much, don’t you think?”

He was dismissing me. He thought I was just the angry little sister coming to vent. He thought he could handle me with the same bro code deflection he used with Travon.

“I am not here to talk about the airport, Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice low and even. “I am here to talk about the mortgage. The one you notorized 3 years ago. The one with my signature on it.”

Marcus’s smile faltered. He shifted in his seat, adjusting his tie.

“Oh, right. That. Look, Jada, that was a while ago. Your parents needed the loan to help Travon get off the ground. It was a family thing. I just helped push the paperwork through. You know how banks can be with red tape. I did you guys a favor.”

“A favor?” I repeated. “You notorized a signature that wasn’t mine. You looked at a woman who wasn’t me, watched her sign my name, and then you stamped it with your state commission. That is not a favor, Marcus. That is a felony.”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Come on, Jada. Don’t use words like that. Your dad said you were on board. He said you were just too busy to come in person, so your mom signed for you as your proxy. It happens all the time in family businesses. Don’t make it weird. Just go home, talk to Travon, and let them pay you back when the startup takes off.”

He was gaslighting me. He was sitting there in his cheap suit telling me that stealing my identity was standard operating procedure. He treated the law like it was a suggestion.

I leaned forward.

“I want the loan file, Marcus. I want to see the application and I want the transaction history for the dispersement account.”

Marcus let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Jada, I can’t just give you that. That is confidential client information. Travon is the primary account holder on the business account. You are just a co signer. Technically, I shouldn’t even be talking to you without him present. Go home, Jada. Stop being dramatic.”

That was the word that did it. Dramatic. It was the same word my father used, the same word Travon used. They all thought that a woman demanding justice was just being emotional.

I reached into my purse. I did not pull out a tissue. I did not pull out a phone.

I pulled out a phone until it hit his hand.

He looked down at it.

Sterling and Vance LLP. Jada Washington, senior forensic accountant, certified fraud examiner.

He frowned, looking up at me with confusion.

“I thought you were a data entry clerk. Trayvon said you worked in admin.”

“Trarevon is an idiot,” I said, cold as ice. “And apparently so are you.”

“Do you know what a forensic accountant does, Marcus?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the card.

“I hunt people who steal money,” I continued, my voice sharpening. “I trace assets for the FBI, for the IRS, and for Fortune 500 companies. I put bad guys in prison, Marcus. Real prison, not the ones you see on TV.”

I reached into the envelope and pulled out a draft of a document I had typed up that morning. It was a formal complaint addressed to the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation and the Illinois Department of Financial and Professional Regulation.

“This is a draft, Marcus,” I said, tapping the paper. “It outlines a conspiracy to commit bank fraud involving a loan officer who knowingly notorized a forged signature.”

“Do you know the penalty for bank fraud under 18 US code section 1344?”

Marcus swallowed hard. His Adams apple bobbed.

“It is up to 30 years in federal prison,” I said, answering my own question. “And a fine of up to $1 million.”

“Now, I know you don’t have a million dollars, Marcus, and I know you wouldn’t last 30 days in prison, let alone 30 years.”

He was sweating now, visible beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. He looked around the lobby, terrified that his manager might be watching.

“Jada, please,” he whispered, his arrogance completely gone. “I didn’t know. I mean, I knew it wasn’t you signing, but your dad swore it was okay. He said you authorized it verbally. I was just trying to help Trayvon. He’s my boy.”

“Is he your boy enough to go to jail for him?” I asked. “Because that is where you are headed.”

“Unless—”

“Unless what?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Unless you give me the statements,” I said. “Right now. I want to see where that $150,000 went.”

“If you give me the evidence, I might leave your name out of the initial report. I might tell the feds you were a victim of their deception, too. But if you protect him, Marcus, I will bury you right next to him.”

He looked at me. He looked at the complaint draft. He looked at his future crumbling before his eyes.

It took him exactly 3 seconds to decide that loyalty to Trayvon was not worth his freedom.

He turned to his computer. His hands were shaking so badly he had to type his password twice.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, I am printing it. Just don’t send that letter, Jada. Please. I have a kid on the way.”

I didn’t care about his kid. He didn’t care about my credit score when he ruined it.

I just waited.

The printer behind him word to life. It spat out page after page of transaction history. Marcus grabbed the stack of warm paper and slid it across the desk to me like it was contraband.

I picked it up.

This was it. The truth.

Trayvon had claimed this money was for servers, for coding, for marketing. He claimed he was building the next tech empire.

I scanned the first page.

October 18th, dispersement received $150,000. October 20th, withdrawal $5,000. DraftKings Sportsbook. October 22nd, POSOS transaction $3,200. Gucci Chicago. October 2005th. Withdrawal $2,000. Horseshoe Casino Hammond.

My eyes widened.

There was no business. There were no servers. There was no office rent.

I flipped the page.

November 5th. Payment $1,200. BMW Financial Services. November 10th. POS transaction $4,500. Balenciaga. November 15th. Transfer to J. Miller $2,000.

J. Miller.

That was Jessica’s maiden name.

He was transferring money directly to his girlfriend.

I kept reading. It was a catalog of hedonism, VIP tables at nightclubs, online gambling losses, designer handbags, leased luxury cars.

They had blown through $150,000 in less than 18 months. Not a single scent had gone into an investment. They had eaten my future. They had drunk it in champagne bottles and worn it on their feet.

I felt a cold fury unlike anything I had ever experienced. I wasn’t just angry. I was disgusted.

My parents were losing their home because Travon wanted to look rich and they had let him do it.

I looked up at Marcus. He was watching me, terrified.

“Did you know?” I asked, holding up the statements. “Did you know he was spending the loan money on gambling and clothes?”

Marcus looked down.