Chapter 8 - The First Betrayal
Mara moved quickly.
She sent notice that I disputed the signature and demanded preservation of records.
Then she sought an order preventing the disputed pledge from going forward while the ownership and consent questions were examined.
My father called seventeen times.
Rebecca called twice.
Madison sent one message.
You’ve always needed to make everyone miserable.
I didn’t answer any of them.
On Wednesday evening, Emily arrived.
She carried a small framed photograph.
My mother and me at the old warehouse, standing beside a blue loading door.
I was eleven.
She was laughing.
“Found it in the attic,” Emily said.
I took it carefully.
“Thank you.”
She looked around my apartment.
At the peeling kitchen cabinet.
The cheap table.
The couch I had bought used.
“I didn’t know you lived like this.”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the first honest thing she had ever said to me.
She sat down.
“Dad says Dominic is using you.”
“He isn’t my attorney.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“So is a forged signature.”
Emily flinched.
I regretted how quickly I had said it.
She was still my sister.
Still someone I had once helped with spelling words while Rebecca talked on the phone.
“Mara thinks the records will show where the reserve went,” I said.
“Which records?”
“The bank records. We’re not guessing.”
Her phone lit up.
She turned it facedown too quickly.
I noticed.
She noticed me noticing.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“Did Dad send you?”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
I felt something inside me go quiet.
“What did you tell him?”
“Only that you have a lawyer. And that there’s going to be an accountant.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
I stood.
“Leave.”
“Claire, he said you were having a breakdown. He wanted to know you were safe.”
“Then why did he need to know about the records?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.”
After she left, I called Mara.
She didn’t blame me.
She made another call.
The next morning, Dominic’s counsel reported that Charles had uploaded a new folder to the financing portal overnight.
Six months of Harbor Lantern invoices.
All describing work I knew had never been done.
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The documents were supposed to explain the missing money.
Instead, one careless detail would expose them.
