Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
The screen of my phone felt ice-cold against my fingertips as I stared at Tara Mills’s message.
*Hey Holly! Please tell June thank you again for watching the kids yesterday. They had a wonderful time. I hope she got the money we sent!*
I sat at my kitchen island, the morning sunlight cutting across the quartz countertop in sharp, pale angles. Upstairs, I could hear the faint hum of June’s white-noise machine. She was still asleep, completely wiped out from the five hours she’d spent in Scott and Becca’s basement managing a half-dozen children under the age of ten.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I forced myself to take a slow breath before typing.
*What money, exactly?*
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Tara was typing, then stopped. Then the dots danced again.
*Oh gosh,* Tara replied. *Scott set up a little Venmo pool for childcare so the parents could relax during the shower. He told us he had hired June to run a mini-daycamp downstairs so none of the adults had to chase toddlers while Becca was opening presents. We all chipped in thirty-five dollars per kid. I had two there, so I sent seventy. Plus a fifteen-dollar tip because Leo can be a handful. Did she not get it?*
A cold, heavy stone sank directly to the bottom of my stomach.
Six kids. Thirty-five dollars a head. Plus tips.
I did the math in my head before I could even stop myself. At minimum, that was two hundred and ten dollars. With tips, it was likely closer to three hundred.
Three hundred dollars. And my twelve-year-old daughter had come home with purple marker on her wrist, grease on her hem, an empty stomach, and a single slice of vanilla sheet cake.
*Holly?* Tara messaged again. *Is everything okay?*
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I couldn't drag Tara into the middle of my toxic post-divorce dynamics, but I needed documentation.
*Tara, could you do me a huge favor?* I wrote back, keeping my tone breezily neutral. *June’s starting to learn how to track her own earnings and savings for middle school. Could you screenshot the message or request Scott sent out about the childcare pool? I want to make sure I help her balance her ledger correctly.*
*Of course! Hang on.*
A minute later, two images loaded in the chat.
The first was a screenshot of an email sent from Scott’s personal account four days before the baby shower. The subject line read: *Baby Shower Details & Childcare Arrangements!*
The text was sickeningly polished:
> *“Hey everyone! We know many of you have little ones and finding a weekend sitter can be tough. Good news! We have arranged on-site, dedicated childcare downstairs in our finished playroom. My daughter June (experienced, CPR-trained junior sitter) will be coordinating games, crafts, and supervision from 1:00 PM to 6:00 PM. To cover craft supplies, snacks, and June’s time, we’re asking $35 per child. Please Venmo me directly at @Scott-Miller-82 with the memo ‘June Sit’ by Friday so we can prep headcounts!”*
The second screenshot was Tara’s Venmo confirmation.
*$85.00 paid to Scott Miller. Memo: June Sit - Leo & Maya + tip!*
My hands were shaking. CPR-trained? June was twelve. She had taken a basic three-hour babysitting course at the local library over the summer, but she had never held an infant alone in her life, let alone six children ranging from four to nine years old. Scott had packaged our seventh-grade daughter as an all-inclusive event amenity, charged his guests for her labor, and stuffed the cash straight into his own pocket.
And then he had looked her in the eye and told her *the money belongs to the family.*
I saved both screenshots directly to my phone’s secure cloud drive. Then I opened my contacts and hit call on Scott’s name.
It rang four times before clicking over to his voicemail.
“Scott, call me back immediately,” I said, keeping my voice dangerously quiet. “I know about the Venmo pool. I know about the thirty-five dollars a kid. You have ten minutes to call me before I start reaching out to every single person on that guest list.”
I hung up.
I didn't have to wait ten minutes. The phone rang in my hand precisely ninety seconds later.
“What the hell is your problem, Holly?” Scott’s voice was an abrasive hiss, pitched low, as if he were trying not to be overheard. “Calling me on a Sunday morning with threats? Are you insane?”
“Where is June’s money, Scott?”
“I don't know what garbage you’re inventing now—”
“I have the email,” I interrupted, my voice steady, sharp as broken glass. “I have the email you sent to your friends on Wednesday advertising June as a private daycare service. I have Tara Mills’s Venmo receipt for eighty-five dollars. Six kids, Scott. You pocketed around three hundred dollars while your daughter spent five hours changing pull-ups and mediating fights in your basement without a meal.”
Silence stretched over the line. For five full seconds, all I could hear was Scott’s heavy breathing.
“You have no right interfering in my household,” he snarled, dropping the denial entirely. “That was a private arrangement for our guests.”
“It’s not a private arrangement when you use my daughter as unpaid labor and fraud your guests into thinking they’re paying her!”
“She lives under my roof every other weekend!” he snapped. “She is part of this family. When Becca has this baby, June is going to have real responsibilities. She needs to understand that we work together. The money went toward the catering and the supplies for the party. Do you have any idea how much that balloon garland cost? How much the grazing table was?”
“Are you seriously telling me,” I said, each word dripping with utter disbelief, “that you used our twelve-year-old child’s labor to pay for your wife’s balloon garland?”
“Don’t you dare twist this!” Scott’s temper flared, the familiar, venomous edge that had defined the final two years of our marriage roaring back to life. “June was happy to do it. She loved every minute of it until you got your claws into her head and convinced her she was a victim. You ruin everything, Holly. You always have.”
“Send her the money, Scott.”
“No.”
“Send June every cent those parents transferred to you, or I swear to God I will take this to family court on Monday morning.”
Scott laughed, a dry, ugly sound that sent a shiver of warning down my spine.
“Go ahead, Holly. Call your lawyer. Let’s see what Judge Harrison thinks about you dragging us into court over a couple hundred bucks when I haven’t even asked to recalculate your child support yet. Did you forget my firm restructured? My base salary dropped fifteen percent this quarter. If we go back in front of a judge, *you’ll* be paying *me*. So think very carefully about how far you want to push this little tantrum.”
The line went dead.
I stood there in the silent kitchen, the phone still pressed to my ear, the cold morning light washing over me. He wasn't just selfish. He wasn't just cheap.
May you like
He was cornered. And a cornered Scott Miller was capable of doing far worse things than stealing three hundred dollars from his own child.
***
