Chapter 4: The Secret My Mother Helped Hide
For almost a full minute, I couldn't move.
I stood in the storage room with my phone in my hand, staring at the photograph of the financial transfer.
My mother's name was printed beneath Brielle's.
Denise Carter.
The woman who had watched my sister burn my dress.
The woman who had told me to stop making everything difficult.
The woman who had spent years reminding me that family was supposed to protect one another.
She had apparently been protecting someone else.
“Dad,” I whispered, “please tell me this isn't real.””
Marcus took the phone from my hand.
“I don't know if the photograph is authentic. That's why we're not making accusations until we verify it.””
“But her signature is right there.””
“I can see that.””
“Why would Mom do something like this?””
He looked toward the storage room door.
“That's the question.””
He put the financial report back inside the envelope.
“Listen carefully, Nia. Don't confront either of them until I understand what's happened.””
I stared at him.
“You want me to pretend everything is normal?””
“No. I want you to protect yourself.””
He picked up the wooden chest's lid and carefully closed it.
“Your grandmother left you something important. I won't allow anyone to take that away from you.””
I nodded, although my thoughts were racing.
When we came downstairs, Mom was standing in the kitchen.
She was arranging flowers in a glass vase.
Brielle sat at the breakfast counter, scrolling through her phone.
The moment she saw us, she looked up.
“Finally. Are we done with the family investigation?””
Dad walked toward the coffee machine.
“For now.””
Brielle laughed.
“Good. Because I have an actual life to get back to.””
I looked at her.
She was wearing the same gold bracelet she'd worn the night before. Her nails were freshly manicured. Her phone case was covered in tiny crystals.
Nothing about her suggested that she was worried.
But I knew something now.
She had been given access to money intended to support young artists.
And I had a feeling that my destroyed dress wasn't an isolated act of jealousy.
“Brielle,” I said.
She didn't look up.
“What?””
“Did Grandma ever tell you about the creative program?””
Her thumb stopped moving.
Just for a second.
Then she put her phone down.
“What creative program?””
“The Evelyn Carter Creative Futures Program.””
Mom dropped a flower stem.
It landed on the counter.
Brielle looked at me.
“Why are you asking about that?””
“I'm interested in it.””
She laughed.
“Since when?””
“Since I found out Grandma wanted me involved.””
The kitchen went silent.
Mom slowly turned around.
“Who told you that?””
“Dad.””
Brielle pushed her stool back.
“That's not what Grandma wanted.””
Dad turned from the coffee machine.
“Then what did she want?””
“She wanted someone capable of running it.””
I held her gaze.
“And you think that someone is you?””
“I know it is.””
Dad placed his coffee cup down.
“Your grandmother never appointed you director, Brielle.””
“She knew I was interested.””
“Being interested and being entitled to something are two different things.””
Brielle's face reddened.
“You're doing it again.””
“Doing what?””
“Giving Nia everything.””
I stared at her.
“Everything?””
“Yes! Every time something happens, you act like she's some kind of victim.””
I shook my head.
“You burned my dress.””
“Because you were being dramatic!””
“You tried to sabotage my application.””
“I was protecting the foundation!””
Dad stepped between us.
“That's enough.””
Brielle grabbed her handbag.
“I have a meeting.””
“Your foundation access remains suspended.””
She stopped.
“You cannot keep saying that!””
“I can, and I will.””
“You're embarrassing me.””
Dad's voice hardened.
“Then stop giving me reasons to ask questions.””
Brielle stormed out.
Mom watched her leave.
Then she turned toward Dad.
“You're pushing her too far.””
He looked at her for several seconds.
“Denise, I need to ask you something.””
Mom's shoulders stiffened.
“What?””
“Did you authorize a transfer from the Evelyn Carter program account?””
Her face went completely still.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What transfer?”” she asked.
Dad didn't answer immediately.
He pulled a printed statement from his jacket.
“Three transfers over eight months. All connected to an account that wasn't listed among the foundation's approved vendors.””
Mom stared at the paper.
Then she looked at me.
“Why are you here?””
I blinked.
“What?””
“This is between your father and me.””
Dad stepped forward.
“No. Not anymore.””
Mom put the flowers down.
“Marcus, I can explain.””
“Then explain.””
She glanced toward the hallway.
“Not in front of Nia.””
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
“Why not?””
Mom pressed her lips together.
“Because you don't understand how complicated this is.””
I laughed softly.
“I'm beginning to understand more than you think.””
Dad lifted the statement.
“Where did the money go, Denise?””
She closed her eyes.
Then she said, almost inaudibly, “It was temporary.””
Dad stared at her.
“What was temporary?””
“The transfers.””
“How much?””
Mom didn't answer.
Dad placed the statement on the counter.
“I'm asking you one last time.””
She looked at him.
“Brielle needed help.””
I felt my heart drop.
“Help with what?””
Mom turned toward me.
“Her apartment. Some personal expenses. She was struggling.””
“Then why didn't she ask you?””
“She was ashamed.””
I stared at her.
“So you used money meant for young artists?””
“It was going to be returned.””
“When?””
Mom looked away.
Dad's voice was dangerously quiet.
“Denise, how much?””
She finally whispered a number.
I looked at the statement.
The amount was larger than I'd imagined.
Dad sat down.
For the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely exhausted.
“You used your mother's program money to cover Brielle's expenses?””
Mom's eyes filled.
“I was trying to keep her from losing everything.””
“And what about the people Grandma wanted to help?””
Mom looked at me.
“Don't make this about you.””
That sentence nearly knocked the air out of me.
“Mom, I'm not making it about me. I'm asking about the money.””
She wiped her cheek.
“Your sister was in trouble.””
“And I wasn't?””
She frowned.
“What?””
“When I was working two jobs, when I was paying for my education, when I was saving for that dress, did you ever ask if I needed help?””
Mom didn't respond.
I continued.
“You watched Brielle get everything handed to her. And when I finally bought one thing with my own money, she burned it.””
“That's enough, Nia.””
“No, Mom. It isn't.””
My voice cracked.
“I didn't want her money. I didn't want her opportunities. I just wanted one evening where she couldn't make me feel worthless.””
Mom looked down.
Dad stood.
“Denise, until the audit is complete, you will not access any foundation accounts.””
She looked at him in disbelief.
“You can't suspend me.””
“I can suspend access to an account I'm responsible for protecting.””
“Marcus, I'm your wife.””
“And those funds belonged to your mother's program.””
Mom picked up her handbag.
“You're choosing this over your family.””
Dad shook his head.
“I'm trying to save what's left of it.””
She walked away.
I remained standing in the kitchen, staring at the vase of flowers.
One of the stems had fallen out.
It lay on the marble countertop, its petals scattered around it.
Then Dad's phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes?””
A long silence followed.
His expression changed.
“When?””
Another pause.
“Are you certain?””
He looked directly at me.
“Send the complete report to my office.””
He ended the call.
“What happened?”” I asked.
Dad picked up the financial statement.
“The accountant found something.””
“What?””
He took a slow breath.
“Three of the transfers were made after Brielle's access should have been revoked.””
I frowned.
“But you said her account was suspended.””
“It was.””
He looked toward the hallway where Mom had disappeared.
“Someone restored her access.””
My phone vibrated.
A new message appeared.
This time, the sender was Brielle.
*Stop digging into Grandma's business, Nia. You have no idea what you're about to destroy.*
I read it aloud.
Dad stared at the screen.
Then he looked at me.
“She's not afraid of losing the money.””
“What is she afraid of?””
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward his office.
I followed.
And as we entered, he opened a drawer and removed a document I'd never seen before.
It was a formal letter from my grandmother's attorney.
The first sentence read:
*In the event of unauthorized financial activity, the program's original beneficiary shall have the right to request an immediate review of all transfers.*
I looked at Dad.
“Who's the original beneficiary?””
He turned the page toward me.
My name was printed beneath the heading.
And beside it was a date.
Tomorrow.
The same day as the committee meeting.
But before I could ask what it meant, Dad's phone rang again.
The accountant had discovered one final transaction.
May you like
And this time, the money hadn't gone to Brielle.
It had gone to someone neither of us expected.
