Chapter 33 - Two Balances, One Year
The difference was eighty-six thousand dollars.
To Thomas, perhaps it had been a discrepancy.
To Natalie, it was semesters.
Rent.
The years she had worked beside a printer in a medical billing office while telling herself she would return to school when things became easier.
We sat together in Evelyn’s office while an accountant explained what the two statements did and did not prove.
The pages covered the same reporting period.
They identified the same reserve.
One listed holdings the other did not.
Neither page could be accepted simply because the number looked more believable.
“We compare them with the underlying records,” the accountant said.
Natalie nodded.
Her hands stayed flat on her knees.
I knew that posture.
It was how people sat when they were afraid anger might move through their fingers.
Afterward, we walked to a coffee shop.
For once, nobody had arranged a meeting there.
We simply wanted coffee.
Natalie bought hers.
I bought mine.
The distinction mattered to her, so it mattered to me.
“Do you ever get tired of being reasonable?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I want someone to say they stole it.”
“I know.”
“I want a number that doesn’t come with another appointment.”
I looked through the window.
A woman was helping a small child pull on mittens.
“I wanted that when Julian was arrested,” I said. “I thought once he admitted what he did, everything would stop moving.”
“Did it help?”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“It didn’t repair what he taught me to expect.”
Natalie looked down at her cup.
We sat without speaking for a while.
That afternoon, Rebecca sent Sarah a collection of archived correspondence.
She had found it on an old external drive while searching for the material related to her settlement.
One message included an invitation to the charity dinner.
Another concerned a proposed investment.
A third had been sent by Thomas.
Rebecca had initially overlooked it because the subject line was ordinary.
Following up.
Inside, Thomas discussed her reluctance to proceed.
He referred to her as a “poor fit for a relationship-based introduction.”
Sarah read the phrase aloud.
I stared at her.
“Relationship-based?”
“It could refer to business,” she said.
“But it might not.”
“No.”
The message continued.
Thomas suggested that Julian focus on people with “established family confidence” and “limited independent professional involvement.”
I thought of myself at twenty-eight.
My father knew everyone.
My mother had been ill.
I was exhausted and grateful when someone remembered how I took my coffee.
Limited independent professional involvement.
There were ways to describe vulnerability that made it sound like a market segment.
Rebecca had replied to the email.
Her answer was brief.
If you mean Audrey Miller, leave her out of this.
My name.
No more guessing.
For several seconds, Sarah let me read it in silence.
Then she said, “We preserve the original file. We don’t circulate screenshots.”
I nodded.
My face felt hot.
I wanted to be furious at Rebecca for not finding me then.
I wanted to thank her.
I wanted the woman I had been to walk into the room so I could tell her to ask one more question.
Instead, I called Rebecca through Sarah.
She answered quietly.
“I knew you would see it eventually.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“I tried.”
She had called my father’s office.
Left a message.
Sent a letter.
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. Thomas returned the call.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did he say?”
“That your family was aware of the situation. That Julian and I had a difficult separation. That contacting you would be inappropriate.”
“And you believed him?”
Rebecca took a breath.
“I believed enough to stop trying.”
The honesty hurt.
I preferred it to an excuse.
That evening, Clara helped me search old boxes of correspondence our father had kept.
We did not open sealed business records or disturb anything investigators had identified.
We looked through ordinary family files Sarah had already cleared us to review.
Christmas cards.
Invitations.
A printed email about my mother’s treatment schedule.
Then Clara found an envelope addressed to Dad.
Rebecca’s name appeared on the return label.
The envelope had been opened.
Inside was her letter.
A note had been clipped to the front in Thomas’s handwriting.
David—handled. No need to upset Audrey while Margaret is unwell.
I sat down.
My mother’s name made the page feel unbearably intimate.
Thomas had used her illness as part of the explanation.
At the bottom, Dad had written a question.
Handled how? Call me.
I traced the words without touching the ink.
For the first time that day, I felt something other than humiliation.
May you like
My father had asked.
Now we needed to learn what answer he had received.
