PART4

“No comment.”

“Did your company receive $1.8 million in financing based partly on documents bearing her signature?”

Dad looked toward the officers.

“I want my attorney.”

Marcus nodded.

“That’s an excellent decision.”

Then Rebecca turned toward me.

“Elena, may I ask you one question?”

I nodded.

“Why did you agree to let us witness this?”

I looked at the damaged wooden door.

Then I looked at my mother.

“Because for thirty-one years, my family has told everyone a version of my life that made them look innocent and made me look difficult.”

I paused.

“I wanted the truth documented before they had another opportunity to rewrite it.”

Rebecca slowly lowered her notebook.

For the first time that morning, my mother looked genuinely frightened.

Not because the police were there.

Not because the reporters were recording.

But because the story she had spent decades telling was finally being challenged by people who weren’t afraid of my father.

The officers separated everyone.

The locksmith cooperated and provided copies of the communications Nathan had sent him.

He explained that Nathan had contacted him two weeks earlier, claiming to be a tenant who had lost access to a property after a dispute with the owner.

The forged lease had been emailed to him.

The locksmith had initially believed it was legitimate.

But when he arrived and saw the security cameras, the expensive property, and my explicit refusal to grant entry, he became uncomfortable.

That was why he had called Marcus after receiving a suspicious message from Nathan.

Nathan, however, had a different explanation.

He insisted Dad had arranged everything.

Dad insisted Nathan had handled the lease.

Mom claimed she had only signed what Dad gave her.

Within an hour, the three people who had arrived together were blaming one another.

I watched from the staircase.

It was almost surreal.

For years, they had presented themselves as an unbreakable unit.

They had agreed on every version of my supposed failures.

They had supported every accusation.

They had repeated every lie until even I occasionally questioned my own memory.

Now, when their actions had consequences, nobody wanted to stand beside anyone.

My father finally looked up at me.

“Elena, we need to talk privately.”

I didn’t move.

“About what?”

“About our family.”

I looked at him.

“You had thirty-one years to talk to me about our family.”

He lowered his voice.

“Don’t do this in front of strangers.”

I glanced at Rebecca.

“Why? Are you afraid they’ll remember what you say?”

He clenched his jaw.

“You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“No, Dad. The terrible mistake was believing that I would spend the rest of my life protecting you from the consequences of your decisions.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You think these people care about you?”

I didn’t answer.

He continued.

“They want a story. They don’t care if they destroy your family.”

I looked at the reporters.

Then back at him.

“You destroyed the family long before they arrived.”

By late afternoon, the initial police investigation had concluded.

My father and Nathan were not allowed to enter the manor.

The locksmith’s tools were returned to his van, and he provided a written statement.

The officers collected copies of the documents and photographs of the damaged door.

My attorney arranged for the evidence to be preserved and forwarded to the appropriate financial investigators.

My mother remained in the driveway for almost twenty minutes after everyone else had moved away.

She kept looking toward the entrance.

Eventually, she approached me.

“Can I come inside?”

I stood behind the doorway.

“No.”

Her eyes filled.

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

“Then how can you do this?”

I took a breath.

“Mom, do you remember the Christmas when I was eleven?”

She looked confused.

“The scarf you wrapped for me because you hadn’t bought me a present?”

Her expression changed.

“I remember.”

“You told everyone I refused to open my gifts because I was being difficult.”

“I was under a lot of pressure.”

“I was eleven.”

She looked down.

“I know.”

I continued.

“Do you remember when you and Dad went skiing without telling me when you were leaving?”

She started crying.

“Elena, please.”

“I remember waking up alone. I remember feeding the cat. I remember watching your Christmas video and hearing Dad tell everyone I had chosen not to come.”

She wiped her cheeks.

“We made mistakes.”

I nodded.

“Yes. You did.”

Then I asked the question I had carried for years.

“Did you ever love me the way you loved Nathan?”

She opened her mouth.

No words came.

And strangely, that silence hurt more than any answer she could have given.

After a long moment, she whispered:

“You were always so independent.”

I almost smiled.

There it was.

The explanation.

The family-approved version.

I was independent, so they forgot me.

I was strong, so they abandoned me.

I was capable, so they took from me.

I was the daughter who could survive anything, which apparently meant I deserved to be put through everything.

“Being independent doesn’t mean I didn’t need a mother,” I said.

She looked at me.

For a moment, I thought she might finally understand.

Then she asked:

“Could you at least help your father save the company?”

I stepped back.

And I closed the door.

Not violently.

Not angrily.

Just firmly.

That evening, Marcus and I sat in the library.

The fire burned quietly.

The reporters had left, promising to contact us before publishing anything that identified private financial information.

My attorney placed the black binder on the table.

“There is one more thing you need to see.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

He opened a section I hadn’t examined before.

Inside were copies of emails, bank statements, and a document from my father’s company’s accounting department.

“What am I looking at?”

Marcus turned the document toward me.

“Your father has been using your identity for longer than we initially believed.”

I stared at the first page.

It contained a list of financial transactions.

Dates.

Amounts.

Account numbers.

And my name.

Then I noticed the total.

$286,400.

My stomach tightened.

“What is this?”

“Payments and credit obligations associated with accounts your father represented as being connected to you.”

I slowly turned the page.

There were several accounts I had never opened.

One had been used to pay the mortgage on my parents’ home.

Another had been used to cover Nathan’s business expenses.

A third had received deposits from Voss Development Group.

I looked at Marcus.

“Can they really do this?”

“They can attempt to. Whether those obligations are legally enforceable against you is another matter. We are challenging them.”

I leaned back.

For a few seconds, the room seemed unusually quiet.

Then I noticed something else.

A document dated eleven months earlier.

It was a preliminary agreement between my father and a private investment company.

The agreement proposed using the Sedona manor as collateral for a restructuring loan.

My father’s company had been negotiating over my property before I had even purchased it.

I looked up.

“He knew I was buying this house?”

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART5…