„Dotknąłeś już funduszu?” – zapytał mój brat milioner w poranek Bożego Narodzenia. Zapytałem: „Jakiego funduszu?”, a trzy twarze zbladły.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Arthur’s voice rose. “I’m talking about a certified envelope with official seals. Impossible to forget.”

Mark shot up from his chair.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered, but his voice sounded broken, desperate.

Arthur kept his eyes on him as he left. Then he looked at me.

“Eleanor, are you serious? You never saw those documents?”

I shook my head. I felt a lump in my throat the size of a rock.

“Never, Arthur. I swear.”

My brother pulled out his phone. His fingers flew across the screen. He called the bank. He put it on speaker.

A friendly voice answered.

“First American Trust. Good evening.”

“This is Arthur Reynolds. I need information on investment account number 447188392206.”

There was a moment of waiting, keys clicking, then the voice returned.

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds. The account is active. Current balance $120,000.”

The world stopped.

“How much?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

“$120,000, sir.”

“That’s impossible. I deposited $500,000 3 years ago. With the returns, it should be over $600,000.”

The woman at the bank paused.

“Sir, there have been constant withdrawals. The most recent was 2 weeks ago, $30,000.”

Arthur gripped the phone so tightly I thought he would break it.

“Who authorized those withdrawals?”

“The beneficiary, Eleanor Reynolds. According to our records, she personally signed every request.”

I felt dizzy. The room began to spin.

“That’s a lie,” I whispered. “I never signed anything.”

Arthur hung up. He looked at me with a mixture of horror and understanding.

“Eleanor, where do you keep your important papers?”

“In my room. In the nightstand drawer.”

“Does Megan have access to that drawer?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. Megan owned this house. I was just a guest. A burden. A piece of old furniture taking up space.

My brother stood up. He went up the stairs like a hurricane. I followed him, my legs trembling. Megan stayed in the dining room, motionless, her face the color of wax.

Arthur opened my nightstand drawer. He took out my old wallet, my medical bills, my old photos, and at the bottom, folded neatly, he found a white envelope. He opened it. Inside were copies of documents, bank statements, withdrawal requests, and on every single one, my signature—but it wasn’t my signature. It was an imitation. A good one, a very good one, but it wasn’t mine.

Arthur showed me the pages.

“You signed this.”

I took the papers with trembling hands. I looked at every line, every number, every date. $380,000 stolen in small, spaced out withdrawals, carefully planned for 3 years.

“No,” I said in a broken voice. “It wasn’t me.”

My brother closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

“Then I know who it was.”

We went downstairs in silence. Megan was still sitting. Mark had returned, but he was standing by the window, looking out at the street as if he wanted to run.

Arthur put the documents on the table.

“Someone forged Eleanor’s signature. Someone intercepted the bank mail. Someone has been stealing that money for 3 years.”

Megan didn’t look up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Look at these dates. Look at these amounts. $30,000 here, $40,000 there. Always right after you called me saying you needed money for home repairs, for the car, for the kids’ private school tuition.”

Mark turned around.

“Ar–… this is a misunderstanding.”

“It’s not a misunderstanding. It’s theft. It’s fraud, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

Megan finally looked at me, and in her eyes, I saw no remorse. I saw fear. Fear of being discovered, fear of losing what she had built with my money. But I also saw something else. Contempt. As if I had no right to that money, as if it was natural for her to take it.

I stood up slowly, very slowly. I felt like I was moving underwater.

“Megan,” I said with a calm I didn’t know I possessed. “Where is my money?”

She pressed her lips together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”

“My money. The $500,000 your uncle put in my name. Where is it?”

“I don’t have your money.”

But her voice trembled and Mark looked at the floor.

Arthur slammed his hand on the table.

“I’m hiring a lawyer. I’m hiring a private investigator, and I’m going to get back every last cent. Even if I have to sue you, Megan. Even if I have to send you to jail.”

Megan jumped to her feet.