Chapter 5: The Woman Behind the Transfers
The name on the final transaction was familiar.
Too familiar.
Dad placed the accountant's report on his desk and pointed to the recipient.
*Carter Creative Consulting LLC.*
I frowned.
“That's Brielle's company.””
He nodded.
“She registered it eleven months ago.””
“Why?””
“According to the paperwork, she was going to provide consulting services to the foundation.””
I stared at the report.
“But she never did any consulting.””
“That's what the accountant is trying to establish.””
Dad turned his computer toward me.
A spreadsheet filled the screen.
There were dates, amounts, account numbers, and descriptions of payments.
The first transaction was small.
The second was larger.
By the third, the amounts had increased substantially.
I covered my mouth.
“How much?””
Dad leaned back.
“Enough to require a full investigation.””
I looked at him.
“Was Mom involved in all of them?””
“Her signature appears on several authorizations. But we still need to establish who initiated each transfer.””
I felt sick.
“Dad, what if Brielle used Mom?””
He looked at me.
“What makes you think that?””
“Because Brielle always knows how to get people to do things for her.””
I remembered being twelve years old.
Brielle had broken a glass vase in the living room and told Mom that I'd been playing too close to it.
Mom had made me apologize.
At sixteen, Brielle had taken money from my school savings envelope. When I confronted her, she cried and said she'd needed it for a school trip.
Mom told me to let it go.
At twenty-one, she'd borrowed my laptop and returned it with a cracked screen.
She'd laughed and said it was an accident.
Every time, someone had protected her.
But this was different.
This involved money that had belonged to my grandmother's dream.
Dad closed the spreadsheet.
“There's one way to find out.””
He called the accountant.
“Robert, I want the original authorization documents. Not copies. And I want the dates compared with the access logs.””
A voice answered through the speaker.
“Understood, Marcus.””
“And Robert?””
“Yes?””
“Don't contact Brielle directly.””
Dad ended the call.
I sat quietly.
Then I asked the question that had been bothering me.
“Why did Grandma trust me with this?””
Dad looked at the photograph on his desk.
“Because she believed you understood what the program was supposed to do.””
“But Brielle is older. She has business experience.””
“Your grandmother didn't choose people based on age.””
He opened another drawer.
Inside was a small notebook.
The cover was faded blue.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to Grandma.
Dad handed it to me.
“She used to write down ideas for the program. I thought you might want to read it.””
I opened the notebook.
The first few pages contained sketches of sewing machines, classrooms, art studios, and small workshops.
Then I reached a page with my grandmother's handwriting.
Talent doesn't always arrive wearing expensive clothes. Sometimes it comes through a door carrying a secondhand bag, afraid to ask for a chance.
I smiled through my tears.
There was another sentence beneath it.
I want this program to become a place where nobody has to beg their family to believe in them.
I closed the notebook.
For the first time since the dress burned, I felt something other than anger.
I felt determined.
“Dad, I want to go to the committee meeting tomorrow.””
He nodded.
“I expected you to.””
“I don't want Brielle to decide whether I belong there.””
“She won't.””
“And I don't want Mom making decisions for me either.””
Dad studied my face.
“Then you'll need to be prepared to stand on your own.””
“I am.””
He smiled faintly.
“I believe you.””
That afternoon, I went to the local dressmaker's studio.
Her name was Ms. Renee, a woman in her fifties who had been sewing formal gowns for more than twenty years.
When I walked inside, she looked up from her machine.
“Nia, sweetheart! I was wondering when you'd come back.””
I tried to smile.
“Hi, Ms. Renee.””
She immediately noticed my expression.
“What happened?””
I hesitated.
Then I told her.
I explained how Brielle had taken the dress and thrown it into the fire.
Ms. Renee stopped moving.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of her sewing machine.
“She did what?””
I nodded.
She took off her glasses.
“That girl has some nerve.””
I looked down.
“I'm sorry. I know you spent so much time making it.””
Ms. Renee walked around the cutting table.
“Don't apologize to me. You paid for that dress. You loved that dress. And somebody destroyed it.””
She looked toward the back of the studio.
“Come here.””
I followed her.
She opened a large storage cabinet and removed a garment bag.
Inside was a collection of fabric samples.
“Your original fabric wasn't all destroyed,” she said.
I stared at her.
“What?””
“I kept the leftover material from your order. Remember? You asked me to save the scraps because you wanted to make matching accessories.””
I nodded slowly.
She placed the samples on the table.
“There's enough here to make something different.””
My eyes filled.
“Ms. Renee…”
“Don't start crying yet. We haven't even discussed the design.””
She pulled out a sketchpad.
“What were you planning to wear to the gala?””
I looked at the drawings.
Then I took a breath.
“Something that doesn't look like the dress Brielle burned.””
Ms. Renee smiled.
“Good. Then let's make something she can't burn twice.””
For the next hour, we worked through designs.
We chose a deeper shade of blue, almost midnight, with a fitted waist and soft flowing sleeves. The new gown would have a simple neckline and delicate silver embroidery.
It wouldn't be identical to the original.
It would be mine.
When I left the studio, I felt lighter.
But the peace didn't last.
As I pulled into the driveway, Brielle's car was parked outside.
She was waiting near the front steps.
Her arms were folded.
“You've been busy.””
I got out of my car.
“What do you want?””
She walked toward me.
“Dad told you to stop asking questions.””
“No, he didn't.””
“Then maybe you should listen to your sister.””
I reached for my bag.
“I don't have time for this.””
She stepped in front of me.
“Do you know what happens if that committee investigates the accounts?””
I stared at her.
“They find out where the money went.””
Her jaw tightened.
“You think you're helping people?””
“I'm trying to understand what happened.””
“You're going to destroy Mom.””
“Mom signed the transfers.””
“She was helping me!””
“Then she can explain that to the committee.””
Brielle moved closer.
“You don't understand how much she sacrificed for us.””
I looked at her.
“What exactly did she sacrifice?””
Her expression changed.
For the first time, she seemed to be considering whether to tell me something.
Then she shook her head.
“Forget it.””
“No. Tell me.””
She looked toward the house.
“Mom has been paying for things you don't know about.””
“What things?””
“Things that kept this family together.””
I stared at her.
“Brielle, what are you talking about?””
She laughed bitterly.
“You really think Dad is the hero here?””
I felt a chill.
“What does that mean?””
She opened her handbag and removed her phone.
Then she showed me a photograph.
It was a bank statement.
The account belonged to the foundation.
The recipient was a property management company.
I read the address.
It was the address of Brielle's apartment building.
My stomach tightened.
“You used foundation money to pay your rent?””
She snatched the phone back.
“Keep your voice down.””
“Why?””
“Because you don't know what you're talking about!””
I stepped back.
“Then explain it.””
She looked at me for several seconds.
Then she said quietly, “Mom didn't just help me because I was struggling.””
“What?””
“She needed me to keep quiet about something.””
My heart began pounding.
“What did she need you to keep quiet about?””
Brielle looked toward the house again.
Then she leaned closer.
“Ask Dad why Grandma changed her will six months before she died.””
I froze.
“What?””
Brielle smiled.
It wasn't her usual confident smile.
It was something colder.
“There's a reason he never talks about that.””
She walked past me.
I turned.
“Brielle!””
She didn't stop.
“Ask him what he promised Grandma,” she called over her shoulder.
Then she got into her car and drove away.
I stood in the driveway for several seconds.
My mind was racing.
When I finally entered the house, Dad was in the living room.
He looked up.
“Everything okay?””
I dropped my bag onto the sofa.
“Brielle told me to ask you something.””
His expression changed.
“What?””
I took a breath.
“She said Grandma changed her will six months before she died.””
Dad didn't answer.
“She said you promised Grandma something.””
He slowly put down the newspaper.
Then he stood.
“Come into my office.””
We walked down the hallway.
He closed the door behind us.
I waited.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
Then he opened a locked drawer and removed a thick legal folder.
“Nia,” he said quietly, “there is something about your grandmother's final wishes that I haven't told you.””
My stomach tightened.
“What?””
He placed the folder on the desk.
“Your grandmother didn't just leave you the creative program.””
He opened it.
“She changed the inheritance arrangements because she discovered someone in this family had been taking money from her for years.””
I stared at him.
“Who?””
May you like
Dad looked directly into my eyes.
“Your mother.””
