Chapter 3: My Brother's Price
My father didn't follow Brandon upstairs.
He stood at the foot of the staircase for several seconds, staring at the closed bedroom door as though he were trying to see through it.
Then he turned to me.
“Emily, I need you to do something for me.””
“What?””
“Take pictures of every document on this table. Don't change anything. Don't throw anything away. And if you remember any conversation about the college account, write it down with dates if you can.””
I nodded.
“Are you going to call the police?””
“Not until I understand exactly what happened. But if someone deliberately took your money, we will deal with it properly.””
He gathered the bank statements into a folder.
“I'm also going to contact the bank's fraud department tomorrow morning. I want the transaction history, the authorization records, and the details of that external account.””
I stared at the folder.
“Dad, what if all the money is gone?””
He came around the table and took both my hands.
“Then we fight to get it back.””
His voice was steady, but his eyes were tired.
“And if we can't recover all of it?””
“Then we'll find another way to get you through college.””
I wanted to believe him.
But I had seen the numbers.
I knew what $11,420 meant when the first tuition bill alone was more than half that amount.
“I don't want you to have to work another twenty years because of me,” I whispered.
Dad frowned.
“Because of you?””
I looked down.
“I should have checked the account.””
He gently lifted my chin.
“No. You were a child when I started saving that money. You were a child when your grandparents contributed to it. And you were a child when I made sure it would be there for you.””
He squeezed my hands.
“This is not your fault.””
I finally began to cry.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
The tears simply came, hot and humiliating, while my father held me in the kitchen where I had once sat doing homework and listening to him tell stories about my mother.
He let me cry until I could breathe again.
Then he wiped my cheek with his thumb.
“Go upstairs and get some rest. I'll handle this.””
I almost obeyed.
But as I reached the first stair, Patricia emerged from the living room.
Her face had been washed clean of makeup, and her hair was tied back. She looked less like the woman who had shoved me to the floor and more like the woman who used to bring home birthday cakes.
That made what she said even worse.
“Emily, can we talk?””
I stopped.
Dad moved between us.
“Not tonight.””
“Michael, please. I need to explain.””
“You've had several opportunities to explain.””
She looked at me.
“I know you're angry.””
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Angry?””
“I'm trying to make this right.””
“You took forty-seven thousand dollars from my college fund.””
“I borrowed it.””
“You paid your credit cards with it.””
“I was going to replace it.””
“You transferred money into your own account without telling Dad.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I was under pressure.””
“So was I,” I said.
“I spent four years studying so I could get into college. I worked every weekend. I saved my own money. And now you're telling me that I should understand why you needed mine?””
Patricia pressed a hand to her chest.
“You don't understand what it's like to be responsible for a family.””
I stared at her.
“You shoved me onto the floor because I wouldn't give Brandon my car keys.””
“I was upset.””
“You hurt me.””
“I didn't mean to.””
“You still did it.””
Her lips trembled.
For one brief second, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she looked at Dad.
“You're letting her turn you against me.””
He stared at her in disbelief.
“No one is making me do anything, Patricia. Your decisions are doing that.””
She shook her head.
“You don't know the whole story.””
“Then tell it.””
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Dad waited.
Finally, she whispered, “Brandon needed help.””
“Help with what?””
“His debts.””
I frowned.
“What debts?””
Patricia closed her eyes.
“His credit cards. His motorcycle payments. A personal loan.””
Dad's expression hardened.
“How much?””
“I don't know exactly.””
“You used Emily's money to pay debts you can't even quantify?””
“I thought I could manage it!””
Dad picked up the folder.
“Then you can explain every transaction to the bank.””
Patricia's tears disappeared.
“You wouldn't do that to me.””
“Watch me.””
She stared at him.
Then she turned and walked away, her heels striking the hardwood floor with sharp, angry clicks.
A door slammed.
Dad exhaled slowly.
“Go upstairs, sweetheart.””
This time, I went.
But I didn't sleep.
At two in the morning, I was still sitting on my bed, my graduation diploma on the desk and my bandaged elbow resting on a pillow.
The car keys lay beside my phone.
I had locked my bedroom door.
I didn't know whether I was protecting myself from Patricia, Brandon, or the terrible possibility that I had spent my entire childhood trusting people who saw my future as a convenient source of cash.
At 2:17 a.m., I heard footsteps outside my room.
They stopped.
A shadow moved beneath the door.
Then Brandon's voice came through the wood.
“Emily?””
I didn't answer.
“Open the door.””
“No.””
He sighed.
“Look, I'm not trying to start anything.””
“Then leave.””
There was a pause.
“Mom's in trouble.””
I sat up.
“Because she took my money?””
“It's more complicated than that.””
I felt a chill move across my shoulders.
“What does that mean?””
He lowered his voice.
“Dad doesn't know everything.””
“Then tell him.””
“I can't.””
“Why not?””
“Because if he finds out, everything falls apart.””
I stood and moved closer to the door.
“What exactly falls apart, Brandon?””
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “You think the money was just for bills? It wasn't.””
My heart began to pound.
“What are you talking about?””
“I shouldn't have said anything.””
“Brandon!””
His footsteps retreated down the hall.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, but he was already halfway down the stairs.
“Tell me what you know!””
He stopped at the bottom and looked back.
For the first time in my life, he didn't look arrogant or annoyed.
He looked frightened.
“Ask Mom about the house,” he whispered.
Then he disappeared.
I stood in the hallway, staring into the darkness.
The house.
What did the house have to do with my college fund?
I went back into my bedroom and closed the door.
I tried to remember every strange conversation I'd overheard during the previous year.
Patricia arguing with Dad about refinancing.
Brandon complaining that his credit score was ruined.
Dad mentioning a loan application he hadn't approved.
Patricia insisting that everything was under control.
At the time, those conversations had seemed like ordinary family disagreements.
Now each one felt like a piece of a puzzle I hadn't known existed.
I opened my laptop and searched the name Dad had written on his notepad.
Northbridge Financial Services.
The company's website was sparse. It advertised personal lending and debt consolidation, with a phone number and an address in a nearby city.
I searched for reviews.
Some people complained about aggressive collection calls. Others described refinancing loans they could no longer afford.
One review caught my eye.
They said they could approve me if I had a guarantor with property. I didn't understand the paperwork until it was too late.
I read it three times.
Then I closed the laptop.
I wasn't qualified to investigate financial companies in the middle of the night. I was an eighteen-year-old girl who had graduated six hours before her life began to unravel.
But I couldn't shake Brandon's words.
Ask Mom about the house.
At seven the next morning, Dad knocked on my bedroom door.
“Emily? Are you awake?””
I opened it.
He looked as if he hadn't slept either.
“I need you to come downstairs.””
“Did you find something?””
He nodded.
“Something important.””
In the kitchen, he had set out two cups of coffee, a plate of toast, and a stack of documents from his home office.
He slid one sheet toward me.
It was a property valuation report.
Our house had been valued at $410,000.
I frowned.
“Why are you showing me this?””
“Because I found a loan application in my office last night.””
He tapped the next page.
The document was dated six months earlier.
It listed Dad as the property owner and described our house as collateral for a proposed loan.
The requested amount was $120,000.
I looked at the signature line.
My father's name appeared at the bottom.
But something was wrong.
“Dad, did you sign this?””
He shook his head.
“No.””
I leaned closer.
The signature looked convincing at first glance. The same tall M. The same sharp turn at the end of Carter.
But the final stroke was too long, and the pressure was wrong.
“How did you get this?””
“It was buried in a folder labeled home insurance. I was looking for the original mortgage documents after Brandon mentioned the house.””
My throat tightened.
“Does this mean someone tried to take out a loan against our home?””
“Possibly. I haven't confirmed whether the application was submitted.””
He picked up another page.
“This is the part that concerns me.””
A section near the bottom listed the proposed use of the loan proceeds.
Debt consolidation.
Business expenses.
Family support.
The listed contact person was Patricia.
The proposed guarantor was Michael Carter.
And the person named as a secondary beneficiary was Brandon Hayes.
I stared at the document.
“Did Mom know about this?””
Dad's expression darkened.
“Your stepmother says she was gathering paperwork for a financial consultation. She claims she never submitted anything.””
“Do you believe her?””
“No.””
He said it without hesitation.
Then he opened his laptop.
“I spoke with the bank's fraud department this morning. They confirmed that the eighteen-thousand-dollar transfer was scheduled through online banking. They also confirmed that the destination account belongs to a business registered to Brandon.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What kind of business?””
“An LLC called Hayes Property Solutions.””
I had never heard of it.
“Does Brandon own a property company?””
“According to the registration, yes.””
“But he doesn't own any property.””
“That's what we're going to find out.””
Dad turned the screen toward me.
The company had been registered eight months earlier.
Its mailing address was a rented mailbox.
Its listed business purpose was property acquisition and renovation.
The company had no public website and no visible business history.
“Why would Brandon need eighteen thousand dollars for a company that doesn't seem to do anything?”” I asked.
Dad closed the laptop halfway.
“I don't know.””
He took a long breath.
“But I'm beginning to suspect that your college fund wasn't being used to cover household emergencies. Someone may have been using it to finance something they didn't want me to know about.””
I thought about Patricia's insistence that Brandon needed my car.
Her desperation to keep Dad from contacting the bank.
The pending transfer.
The loan application with my father's forged signature.
Suddenly, the events of the previous evening no longer felt like separate incidents.
They felt connected.
And whatever connected them was much bigger than a selfish stepmother borrowing money.
At nine o'clock, Dad called Patricia into the kitchen.
She arrived wearing a robe, her hair uncombed, her expression already defensive.
“What now?””
Dad placed the property loan application on the table.
“Did you submit this?””
She glanced at it.
“I told you. I was getting information.””
“Did you sign my name?””
“No.””
“Did you authorize anyone else to sign it?””
“No.””
Dad slid the page closer.
“Then why does the lender's copy list you as the contact person?””
Patricia's face tightened.
“I don't know.””
“Why is Brandon's company listed as a beneficiary?””
She looked toward the staircase.
“Ask him.””
“I am asking you.””
Patricia sat down.
For several seconds, she studied the paper.
Then she said something that made my father lean forward.
“The loan was supposed to replace the money.””
“What money?””
She swallowed.
“Emily's money.””
I stared at her.
“You planned to borrow against the house to put my college fund back?””
“I was trying to fix the situation!””
“By taking out a loan Dad never approved?””
“I thought I could handle it!””
Dad's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Who told you to do this?””
Patricia shook her head.
“No one.””
“Who prepared the application?””
She said nothing.
Dad pushed the paper toward her.
“Patricia, this is not a misunderstanding anymore. Someone used my name on a financial document without my permission. I need to know who.””
Her hands began to tremble.
“I didn't forge your signature.””
“Then who did?””
She looked toward the staircase again.
This time, I followed her gaze.
Brandon was standing halfway down the stairs.
He had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, but his face was pale and his eyes were bloodshot.
Dad stood up.
“Brandon, come here.””
Brandon didn't move.
Dad repeated himself.
“Now.””
Slowly, Brandon descended the stairs.
He stopped beside his mother.
Dad held up the application.
“Did you create this company to receive money from Emily's college fund?””
Brandon shook his head.
“No.””
“Did you know about the eighteen-thousand-dollar transfer?””
He hesitated.
“Yes.””
Patricia closed her eyes.
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Did you receive any of the money that was withdrawn from the account?””
Brandon looked at his mother.
She whispered, “Don't.””
Dad placed the application on the table.
“Answer me.””
Brandon's shoulders slumped.
“Yes.””
The single word seemed to suck all the air from the room.
I gripped the back of a chair.
“How much?”” I asked.
Brandon looked at the floor.
“I don't know.””
“Don't lie to me!”” I shouted.
He flinched.
“I got about twenty thousand dollars.””
My stomach turned.
“Twenty thousand?””
“Some of it was for the company.””
“What company?”” I demanded.
“You don't even have a real business!””
“I was trying to start something!””
“With my college money?””
“I was going to pay it back!””
Dad's voice cut through the room.
“Where did the rest of it go?””
Brandon shook his head.
“Mom handled most of the transfers.””
Patricia shot to her feet.
“You told me you needed it for the property deal!””
“I did!””
“What property deal?”” Dad demanded.
Neither of them answered.
Then Brandon looked at me.
His face crumpled, but the next words that came out of his mouth were not an apology.
“They said the house would cover everything.””
Dad went still.
“What do you mean, the house would cover everything?””
Brandon looked from his mother to the forged application.
Then he whispered, “The house wasn't the only thing they planned to use.””
My father stared at him.
“Who is they, Brandon?””
Brandon swallowed hard.
And then he said a name I had never heard before.
“Richard Lawson.””
Patricia made a strangled sound.
Dad's expression changed.
He knew that name.
I could tell from the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“Richard Lawson,” Dad repeated.
“The man who called me three months ago about buying my contracting business?””
Brandon nodded.
Dad took a step backward.
For a moment, he looked as if someone had struck him.
Then he turned toward Patricia.
“You told me that conversation was over.””
“It was!””
“Then why is he involved with my house, my daughter's money, and your son's company?””
Patricia began to cry.
But Dad wasn't looking at her anymore.
He was staring at the loan application, where a small line near the bottom contained a reference number and a note about additional security.
He read it once.
Then again.
Finally, he looked up at me.
“Emily, I need you to listen very carefully.””
I could barely breathe.
“What?””
Dad turned the document toward me.
“The bank's records show that this wasn't the only application submitted under my name.””
He pointed to the reference number.
“There is another one.””
My fingers went numb.
“For what?””
Dad's eyes moved to Patricia.
Then to Brandon.
And when he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“For a loan secured against an asset that doesn't belong to either of them.””
He picked up his phone.
“I'm calling my attorney.””
But before he could dial, Patricia reached across the table and grabbed his wrist.
“Michael, please. If you make that call, you won't just destroy me.””
Dad pulled his hand away.
“Who else is involved?””
Patricia's face crumpled.
She looked at Brandon, then at me.
May you like
And finally, she said the words that turned my father's anger into something far more frightening.
“Your daughter isn't the only person whose future is at risk.””
