Chapter 4 - The Ambush at Simone’s
By Saturday afternoon, the silence from my phone had become absolute—at least from the numbers I hadn't yet blocked. Wren had kept me updated through encrypted messages on an app our parents didn't know existed.
*Dad went to the bank this morning,* Wren texted me at 2:00 PM. *He tried to get them to transfer the utilities into his name without paying the reconnection fees, but because his credit score took a hit during his lawsuit, they’re demanding a five-hundred-dollar cash deposit for the electric and three hundred for the water. He was screaming in the living room.*
*Did he touch the trust money?* I asked.
*No. Brent told him if he withdraws from the trust, it triggers a tax audit or penalties. Brent wants the trust kept intact so he can use it as collateral for a commercial loan to open a gym. They’re furious at you, Cass. They’re blaming you for ‘ruining their holiday weekend.’*
I set the phone down and helped Simone hang a wreath on her front door. The winter air was crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and impending snow. For the first time in four years, I didn't feel the suffocating weight of an impending mortgage deadline crushing my chest. I felt light.
That lightness lasted until a familiar, throaty rumble echoed down Simone’s quiet cul-de-sac.
A black, lifted Ford F-150 with aftermarket exhaust rolled past the row of townhouses. It was Brent’s truck—the one he had bought two years ago while claiming he couldn't afford fifty dollars toward the grocery bill.
The truck pulled abruptly into Simone’s guest parking slot, tires grinding against the curb.
The driver’s door swung open, and Brent stepped out. He was wearing an expensive leather jacket and designer jeans, his face flushed red with rage. From the passenger side, Mom climbed out, clutching her designer purse—a birthday gift from Brent that I had later discovered had been purchased on a credit card he never paid off.
“Cassidy!” Mom called out the moment she spotted me on the porch. Her voice was shrill, carrying across the quiet neighborhood. “Cassidy, get down here right now!”
Simone stepped out beside me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you want me to call the police?” she asked under her breath.
“Not yet,” I said, walking down the three wooden steps onto the concrete walkway. “Let’s hear what thirty-five years of entitlement sounds like when it’s cold.”
Brent reached the foot of the walkway first. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and used to intimidating people by simply looming over them.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Brent snarled, pointing a thick finger at my face. “You shut off the power while Vanessa was getting ready to meet her parents for dinner. You cancelled the Wi-Fi. Do you have any idea how childish you look?”
“I look like someone who doesn't live at Sycamore Drive anymore,” I said calmly, meeting his glare without flinching. “Why would I pay for internet I don't use?”
“Because you’ve always paid it!” Mom interrupted, her voice cracking with dramatic indignation. She hurried up beside Brent, her eyes wide and wet with theatrical tears. “Cassidy, how could you be so cruel? Your father has a medical condition! He can’t be sitting in a cold house without heat!”
“The heat is gas, Mom,” I noted flatly. “The gas bill isn't due until the fifteenth. The furnace works just fine. You just have to walk over to the thermostat and turn it on.”
“The blower fan runs on electricity!” Brent barked. “The house is sixty degrees! Dad’s back is spasming because of the cold, and you’re over here playing games with Simone!”
“Then pay the electric bill, Brent,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes. “It’s three hundred dollars. You’re driving a seventy-thousand-dollar truck. Pull out your wallet and pay it.”
Brent’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “That’s none of your business. My money is tied up in business investments.”
“What investments?” I countered. “Your detailing job? Or the detailing supplies you bought on the credit card you begged me to bail you out of last summer?”
Mom gasped, clutching her chest. “Cassidy! Your brother is trying to build a future! How can you stand there and attack your own family after everything we’ve done for you?”
“Everything *you’ve* done for *me*?” The sheer absurdity of the statement knocked the wind out of me for a second, but then the anger ignited. It was cold, sharp, and pristine. “You took my entire twenties. You took my savings. You let me believe Dad was destitute while you hid almost half a million dollars in a trust fund!”
The silence that followed was instantaneous.
The color drained from Mom’s face so rapidly she looked like a ghost standing on the pavement. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air on a dry dock.
Brent froze. His aggressive posture collapsed by half an inch, his eyes darting toward Mom with sudden panic.
“What… what are you talking about?” Mom stammered, her voice dropping to a frightened whisper. “What trust?”
“The Miller Family Legacy Trust,” I said clearly, letting every syllable ring through the cold afternoon air. “Dated three years ago. Three hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars deposited into an account bearing Arthur and Eleanor Miller’s names, with Brent as the sole beneficiary. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?”
“Who told you that?” Brent demanded, his voice suddenly cracked with terror. “Did you hack into Dad’s computer? Did you go through his safe?”
“It doesn't matter how I know,” I said. “What matters is that you have four hundred grand sitting in the bank while you looked me in the eye on Thanksgiving and asked if I was still going to cover the mortgage.”
Simone stepped forward from the porch, holding her phone up visibly. “I’m recording this entire interaction,” she announced loudly. “And if you two aren't off my property in thirty seconds, I’m calling the county sheriff for trespassing and harassment.”
Brent looked at Simone, then back at me. The bravado had vanished, replaced by the cornered hostility of a caught predator.
“You’re dead to this family, Cassidy,” Brent hissed, stepping back toward his truck. “You think you’re smart? You think you won something here? That house is ours. You don't have a single legal claim to it. You wasted four years of your money, and you’re leaving with nothing.”
“I’m leaving with my paycheck,” I replied. “Let’s see how long that house stays yours without it.”
Mom burst into hysterical sobs as Brent grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly into the passenger seat of his truck. He slammed the door, jumped behind the wheel, and threw the truck into reverse, screeching out of the driveway and leaving two black streaks of rubber on Simone’s quiet street.
Simone lowered her phone and looked at me. Her expression was solemn.
“He’s wrong about one thing, Cass,” Simone said softly.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not leaving with nothing. We’re calling my cousin Marcus on Monday morning.”
“Who’s Marcus?”
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“Marcus is a senior forensic auditor for the Department of Financial Services,” Simone said, a fierce smile touching her lips. “And he despises fraudulent trusts.”
***
