Chapter 8 - A Name Someone Stole
The letter accused me of taking private family correspondence, financial records, and jewelry from the Marino household. It claimed I had confessed to the theft and asked that Ben's financial aid be reviewed because I had been supporting him with stolen funds.
Ben's hands shook as he held it. “They said they won't take action without evidence. But why would someone do this?”
I knew why. Victoria wanted me frightened enough to leave.
Anthony offered to call the university. I stopped him.
“Thank you,” I said, “but this is my name. I'd like to answer for it myself.”
He considered me for a moment, then nodded. “Evelyn can help you prepare a response if you want.”
“I do.”
I wrote down the truth. I explained that I had discovered discarded letters and preserved them for their intended recipient. I supplied employment records and asked for an opportunity to respond to any allegation. Evelyn helped me phrase the letter without threats. Ben took it back to campus, and I watched his car disappear through the gates with a feeling I couldn't name.
For eleven months I had been proud to help pay his tuition. Now my job had placed his future in the path of someone else's revenge.
Rosa found me crying in the laundry room.
“Did someone die?” she asked.
“No.” I wiped my face. “I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous.”
“Then I'm relieved. Because crying is allowed even when nobody dies.”
She maneuvered her wheelchair beside the dryer. “Sit. Tell me.”
I told her everything. She listened without interrupting, her hands folded over the faded blue skirt Victoria had mocked.
“When Anthony was young,” she said finally, “I cleaned an apartment where a woman accused me of stealing a bracelet. It was under her bathroom sink. She never apologized.”
“What did you do?”
“I kept my records. I found other work. And I decided her cruelty wasn't going to write my story.”
She touched my cheek. “Don't let Victoria write yours.”
That afternoon Evelyn announced an important development. The forensic examiner had recovered files from the hard drive. Among them were recordings of security feeds, copies of contracts, and schedules for moving Rosa and Lily. Some files appeared to have been copied from Victoria's laptop. Others had been placed on the drive by the man who tried to escape.
“Why would he steal her own records?” I asked.
“Possibly he was collecting them for someone else. We don't know yet.”
One video showed Victoria speaking to Nathan Price in the service corridor. There was no sound. She handed him an envelope, then pointed toward the door to the garage. On the timestamp, the date was three weeks before Thanksgiving.
“Can we use it?” Anthony asked.
“Potentially, once the metadata and custody chain are verified,” Evelyn replied. “But the strongest evidence may be the signed instructions recovered from the drive.”
Those instructions told staff to make Rosa's cottage inaccessible during renovation. They also requested that Lily's personal belongings be packed before an overseas transfer. Neither document was proof that the transfer had been completed. Both contradicted Victoria's claim that she had merely been thinking about health and education.
Anthony stared at the screen. “She wasn't going to tell me until they were gone.”
Evelyn folded her hands. “We have enough to seek urgent protection. We should also refer the suspected forgery and impersonation to authorities.”
He agreed.
That evening Lily asked to speak to me privately. We sat on the stairs outside the blue room.
“Did I do something bad when I told Daddy about the suitcase?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Victoria said grown-up problems were my fault when I asked too many questions.”
I felt anger rise, hot and useless. I took a breath before answering. “You never caused this. Adults are responsible for what they do. You're allowed to ask questions.”
Lily leaned against me. “Is Daddy going to be sad forever?”
“I don't think so.”
“Will you stay until he's happy?”
I paused. “I care about all of you. But your daddy's happiness is something he has to work on too.”
She considered that. “Like homework?”
“A little like homework.”
She smiled, finally.
At bedtime, I found a plain envelope outside my bedroom door. Inside was a photograph of my brother standing outside his college library.
May you like
Across the back, someone had written four words.
STOP ASKING ABOUT ISABEL.
