My mother refused to accept what was happening.
She stepped toward me with a desperate expression.
“This is family business, Emma,” she hissed, grabbing my wrist again, her long fingernails digging into my skin like claws. “I don’t know what kind of sick, twisted revenge fantasy this is, but whatever happened, whatever silly little accounting misunderstanding this is, we can settle it among ourselves! We can write a check! We are a family! You do not air dirty laundry in public!”
I looked down at her hand.
The gesture brought back memories of the night I had returned from Oakhaven Financial.
For illustration purposes only
I remembered placing my evidence on the kitchen table.
I remembered begging my parents to examine the records.
I remembered how quickly they had accepted my supervisor’s accusations rather than believe their own daughter.
Nobody had defended me.
Nobody had asked whether the evidence was genuine.
