Chapter 6: The Brother Who Took My Work
I spent the entire drive home thinking about Evan Carlisle.
Not about the money.
Not about the job.
Not even about my parents.
Evan.
Because betrayal always hurts differently when it comes from someone you trusted.
A stranger stealing from you creates anger.
A friend stealing from you creates confusion.
You start searching through every memory you have.
Every conversation.
Every laugh.
Every moment you thought meant something.
You start wondering which version of the person was real.
The one who helped you?
Or the one who hurt you?
I parked outside my apartment building and stayed in the car for almost twenty minutes.
The city lights reflected across the windshield.
My phone sat beside me.
Three new messages.
Two from my mother.
One from Marisa.
I ignored all of them.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because for once, I needed time to process something before everyone else told me how I should feel.
I went upstairs, made coffee I didn’t drink, and opened my old research files.
Most of them were backed up.
But I had never looked closely at the versions.
I always assumed my failures were my own.
That was the part I couldn’t get past.
If someone had damaged my work, then what did that mean about all those years?
All those rejections?
All those moments when I questioned myself?
I opened the earliest file.
The original draft.
My fingers moved slowly across the keyboard.
Then I compared it with the final submission.
At first, I saw nothing.
Small differences.
Formatting.
Minor adjustments.
Nothing obvious.
Then I found it.
A calculation in one of my models.
A single number.
Changed by less than two percent.
Most people would miss it.
But I knew my work.
That tiny change affected everything after it.
It made the entire model look less reliable.
I leaned back.
My heart was pounding.
Because someone didn’t destroy my research.
They did something smarter.
They weakened it.
They made it look like I had made mistakes.
I stared at the screen.
And suddenly I remembered.
Evan sitting across from me in the university library.
“You’re overcomplicating this,” he had said.
I looked up from my notebook.
“What?””
He pointed at my calculations.
“Your model is too aggressive.””
“I think it’s accurate.””
“I know you do.””
His tone had bothered me.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he sounded certain.
Like he knew better.
“You should simplify it,” he told me.
“Why?””
“Because people don’t fund ideas they don’t understand.””
At the time, I thought he was helping.
Now I wondered.
Was he guiding me?
Or was he changing my direction?
My phone rang.
I looked down.
Marisa.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?””
There was a pause.
“Sylvie?””
Her voice sounded nervous.
Not like my mother.
Not controlled.
Actually nervous.
“What?””
“Can we talk?””
“About what?””
“Mom told me you were upset.””
I laughed quietly.
“Did she?””
“Yes.””
“Did she tell you why?””
Silence.
That silence told me enough.
“She told you I was upset,” I said.
“She didn’t explain.””
“Of course not.””
Marisa sighed.
“Sylvie, I don’t want to fight.””
“Neither do I.””
“Then please stop acting like everyone is against you.””
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The family version of events.
I was never hurt.
I was always dramatic.
“I’m not acting like everyone is against me.””
“Then what are you doing?””
“I’m trying to understand why everyone knew I graduated except me apparently.””
“That’s not fair.””
“What isn’t fair?””
“Blaming us for everything.””
I stared at the laptop screen.
The altered research file.
The proof someone had been working against me.
“You know what’s interesting?””
“What?””
“You all keep saying I’m blaming you.””
“Because you are.””
“No.””
I looked at the changed calculation.
“I’m asking questions.””
Marisa was quiet.
Then she said:
“Mom and Dad didn’t know about the graduation situation.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“They thought you weren’t coming.””
I sat up.
“What?””
“I mean… they thought you were uncomfortable.””
“Who told them that?””
Another pause.
“Mom said you mentioned it.””
I felt cold.
“I never said that.””
“Are you sure?””
“Yes, Marisa.””
My voice hardened.
“I’m very sure.””
She didn’t respond.
“Did Mom tell you I failed?””
A long silence followed.
Then:
“Yes.””
My stomach tightened.
“She told you?””
“Yes.””
“And you believed her?””
“I didn’t know what to think.””
“That’s not an answer.””
Marisa sighed.
“I just thought maybe you were struggling.””
I looked away.
“Everyone thought I was struggling.””
“I’m sorry.””
The apology surprised me.
Because it sounded real.
Not perfect.
Not rehearsed.
Real.
I softened slightly.
“Why didn’t you call me?””
“I did.””
“When?””
“After the ceremony.””
I checked my phone history.
There was nothing.
“No, you didn’t.””
“Yes, I did.””
“Marisa, I have seventeen missed calls from relatives. None from you.””
She went silent.
Then:
“That’s weird.””
“What is?””
“I called.””
My eyebrows pulled together.
“Maybe you called the wrong number?””
“I have your number.””
“Then what happened?””
Neither of us spoke.
Then Marisa said something quietly.
“Mom told me not to bother you.””
My chest tightened.
“What?””
“She said you needed space.””
I stared at the wall.
My mother had done more than skip my graduation.
She had controlled the story.
She had decided who could contact me.
Why?
Because if people talked to me, they would know the truth.
“Marisa.””
“Yeah?””
“Did Mom tell you about Wexford Lane?””
A pause.
“Yes.””
“What did she say?””
“She said you got some huge offer.””
“And?””
“She said you were probably going to reject it because you were angry.””
I almost laughed.
“Did she?””
“Yes.””
“Why would she think that?””
“I don’t know.””
I looked around my apartment.
At the books.
The notes.
The years of work.
“Because she thinks everything I do is a reaction to her.””
Marisa didn’t answer.
Before we hung up, she said:
“Sylvie?””
“What?””
“I really am sorry.””
I believed her.
Not completely.
But enough to notice the difference.
After the call ended, I returned to the files.
I searched Evan’s name.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
A folder from years ago.
A shared research drive.
A folder I hadn’t opened since my first master’s program.
I clicked.
There were dozens of documents.
Most were old.
Then I saw one.
*Project Prescott — Revised Model*
My heart stopped.
I opened it.
The file history appeared.
Created by me.
Modified by Evan.
I stared at the screen.
The date was three years ago.
The same year my grandmother sent my work to Wexford.
The same year everything started falling apart.
I took screenshots.
Then I sent them to Daniel.
His reply came within minutes.
*Do not contact Evan yet.*
I frowned.
I typed back.
*Why?*
His answer appeared.
*Because he knows we found your research.*
I froze.
A second message followed.
*And he called us this morning.*
My blood went cold.
I stared at the words.
*He called us.*
Not coincidence.
Not suspicion.
He knew.
Another message appeared.
*Sylvie, there is something else.*
I waited.
Then:
*Evan did not just alter your research.*
My fingers hovered over the phone.
*What did he do?*
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, Daniel replied.
*He filed a patent application using a version of your work.*
I stopped breathing.
Because suddenly everything connected.
The rejected proposals.
The missing recognition.
The altered files.
My grandmother’s urgency.
Evan hadn’t just damaged my research.
He had tried to take it.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t some random person who found my work online.
He was someone I trusted enough to let inside.
My phone rang again.
This time, I recognized the number.
Evan Carlisle.
I stared at it.
The person who had spent years beside me.
The person who knew every detail of my research.
The person who might have stolen the biggest achievement of my life.
The phone kept ringing.
I answered.
“Hello?””
For five seconds, there was only silence.
Then Evan spoke.
“Sylvie.””
His voice sounded exactly the same.
Calm.
Familiar.
Like nothing had happened.
“I heard Wexford Lane contacted you.””
I said nothing.
Then he continued.
“We need to talk.””
My grip tightened around the phone.
“About what?””
Another pause.
May you like
Then he said the one sentence that confirmed everything.
“About the research you think belongs to you.””
