Chapter 3 - The Paper Trail
The ride back to the house was a suffocating nightmare. Mark drove with both hands white-knuckled at ten and two, refusing to exceed the speed limit by even one mile per hour.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Mark mumbled repeatedly. “Jenna is exaggerating. Jenna has hated Dad ever since he cut her out of the trust.”
“Your sister just risked everything to warn us!” I shouted, watching the grey winter sleet pelt the windshield. “And you’re still defending him? While your daughter lies in a hospital bed with second-degree chemical burns?”
When we pulled into the driveway of our suburban colonial, my stomach dropped.
The front door was wide open, swinging gently in the bitter wind. Snow had drifted into the foyer.
I bolted inside, ignoring Mark’s calls behind me.
The house was trashed—not by an amateur burglar looking for jewelry, but by someone who knew precisely what they wanted. The filing cabinet in our home office had been pried open with a crowbar. Empty manila folders littered the hardwood floor.
Lucy’s birth certificate, her vaccination records, our tax returns, and my personal therapy journals from three years ago—all gone.
I sprinted down the basement stairs. The concrete floor was covered in two inches of murky water. A single copper pipe had been severed cleanly with a pipe cutter, spraying water across my private storage bins.
Standing in the corner, holding a wet flashlight, was Jenna.
Her coat was soaked, her face pale. She dropped the flashlight into the water when she saw me, her breath hitching.
“Jenna!” I splashed toward her. “What happened?”
“He left right before you got here,” she whispered, trembling uncontrollably. “He didn't just take the files, Claire. He took the master hard drive from your desk. The one where you backed up your security cameras.”
Mark appeared at the top of the basement stairs, looking down at his sister with disgust. “What did you do, Jenna? Did you break Dad’s phone? Do you realize what kind of legal trouble you’re in?”
Jenna looked up at her brother, her eyes filled with tears of pure rage. “I found the emails, Mark. All of them. Between Dad and your offshore account manager.”
Mark froze on the stairs.
“What offshore account?” I asked, turning slowly toward my husband.
May you like
Jenna stepped forward, pulling a water-resistant USB drive from her bra. “Dad isn’t trying to get custody because he cares about Lucy, Claire. Mom’s trust fund unlocks on Lucy’s twelfth birthday. Three million dollars, managed solely by Lucy’s legal guardian. And Mark owes Dad four hundred thousand dollars in gambling debts.”
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