Chapter 8: My Mother's Name on the Missing Pages
My mother had left me a small collection of memories.
A faded photograph of her standing beside a lighthouse.
A blue scarf that still smelled faintly of lavender.
A music box that played a tune I could never quite remember.
And a trust fund I had always been told was intended to pay for my education.
I knew the last part because my father had mentioned it once when I was younger. He explained that my mother's money had been placed in a protected account and that I would have access to it when I turned eighteen.
Corisande had never discussed it.
Neither had anyone else.
Now my father was standing in my aunt's kitchen, staring at a message about a changed trust.
“Who sent that?”” I asked.
“I don't know.””
“Could it have been Corisande?””
“Possibly.””
“Then why does she think you did something?””
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Your mother established the trust with a solicitor shortly before she died. It was meant to be managed independently. I was the trustee responsible for overseeing its administration.””
“Does that mean you could spend the money?””
“Not for myself. The trust was intended for your education and well-being. There were specific restrictions.””
I stared at him.
“Then what does changing it mean?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“I need to see the original documents before I can answer.””
I didn't like the way he said that.
It reminded me of all the times Corisande had explained things in a way that made my questions feel unreasonable.
“Dad, is my money gone?””
His expression changed.
“I don't know.””
The answer hit me harder than I expected.
It wasn't really about the money.
It was about discovering another part of my life that might have been controlled without my knowledge.
My aunt moved a plate of biscuits out of the way and sat down beside me.
“Daniel, you should contact the solicitor who handled Olivia's estate.””
“I will.””
“And you should do it through an independent lawyer now. Given what's happened, you need someone who has no connection to Corisande.””
He nodded.
“I agree.””
That evening, my father arranged for an independent solicitor to review the trust records. Detective Reed was also informed of the message, although she cautioned us against assuming who had sent it until the source was established.
For the first time since the party, the investigation extended beyond Corisande's treatment of me.
It also touched the part of my life that existed before her.
The following morning, my father returned with a box of documents.
He placed it on Aunt Celia's dining table.
“I found the original trust agreement in the bank's archive,” he said.
“I also requested the account statements and the correspondence relating to the amendments.””
I sat opposite him.
“What did you find?””
He took out a folder.
“The account is still there.””
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
“But the balances are lower than I expected,” he continued.
“How much lower?””
He gave me a figure.
It was an amount so large that I couldn't understand what it meant. I knew only that it was supposed to have been there for my future.
“Where did the money go?””
“Some withdrawals were authorized under provisions for your education and living expenses.””
He looked troubled.
“Others were listed as transfers to accounts associated with the foundation.””
“The children's foundation?””
“Yes.””
My stomach tightened.
“The one Corisande says helps children?””
He nodded.
“Those transfers were described as reimbursements for educational and therapeutic services.””
I stared at the paperwork.
“Did I receive those services?””
“I don't believe so.””
He lifted another page.
“The records refer to a residential counseling program. According to these entries, funds were paid for your care over several years.””
“But I never went anywhere.””
My father looked at me.
“I know.””
I counted the dates with my finger.
Some transfers had been made while I was attending ordinary school. Others were dated during summer holidays when I had stayed at the mansion.
One entry was dated the same week Corisande made me sleep in the laundry room.
The listed expense was labeled specialized overnight supervision.
I pushed the paper away.
“She used my money to pay herself for hurting me?””
“I don't know whether she personally received every amount, and I won't speculate before the accounts are examined. But the transfers appear to have been made through the foundation, and we need to establish why.””
I felt sick.
Corisande had told the world that taking care of me cost her a fortune.
Now it appeared that money intended for my future might have been used to support the public image she had built around herself.
My father picked up another document.
“This one is more troubling.””
It was an amendment to the trust agreement.
The document purported to authorize additional payments for my long-term residential care if an independent professional determined that such care was necessary.
The signature at the bottom was my father's.
He stared at it.
“I never signed this.””
I looked at the date.
It was almost a year old.
The same period when Corisande had first started talking about how difficult I had become.
“Who did?””
“That is what the solicitor is trying to establish.””
My aunt folded her arms.
“If someone forged Daniel's signature, the police need to know.””
“They already have copies of the documents,” my father replied.
“The solicitor is preparing the complete account records and the original versions of every amendment.””
He looked at me.
“Mara, I want you to understand something. The money is not your responsibility to recover. You don't need to become involved in the financial investigation to prove what happened to you.””
I looked at the signature.
For years, I had believed my father made mistakes because he was busy or careless.
Now I wondered whether Corisande had been making decisions in his name while he was away, knowing he would assume the paperwork had been handled properly.
“Did she always have access to these documents?”” I asked.
“Some of them. She handled a great deal of the household administration.””
“Could she have taken the money without you knowing?””
He paused.
“It appears possible that transfers were made without my proper authorization. The investigators and solicitors will need to establish exactly what happened.””
I looked at my aunt.
She had gone very quiet.
Then she stood and walked to the kitchen.
I followed her.
“Are you angry?””
She turned toward me.
“I'm furious.””
“At Corisande?””
“At Corisande, yes. But I'm also angry that so many adults had opportunities to ask questions and didn't.””
I leaned against the counter.
“I don't want to be the reason Dad loses everything.””
My aunt's face softened.
“You are not responsible for what a grown woman chose to do.””
“But if the company is connected to the foundation—”
“Then the adults will deal with that. You are allowed to be a child in this story, Mara.””
I looked down.
Nobody had said that to me before.
For six years, Corisande had treated me as though I were responsible for her anger, her reputation, her marriage, and her public image.
I had spent so much time managing her emotions that I had forgotten how little power a child was supposed to have.
Aunt Celia placed both hands on my shoulders.
“You don't have to save your father from the consequences of his own decisions. You don't have to rescue the foundation. And you do not have to make Corisande look better than she is.””
My eyes filled.
“Then what am I supposed to do?””
She smiled sadly.
“Grow up. Go to school. Eat your breakfast.
Have friends. Be fourteen.””
I laughed once, a small, unexpected sound.
It felt unfamiliar.
But it felt good.
That afternoon, Dana called with an update.
The police had obtained additional records from the foundation, including correspondence between Corisande and Julian Mercer.
Several emails appeared to discuss the residential placement proposal and the use of funds intended for my care.
She explained that the financial matters would be examined separately from the abuse allegations, but the records could help establish why Corisande wanted me removed from the household.
Then Dana said something else.
“The foundation has been notified that its records may be relevant to an investigation. We have also learned that Corisande has requested an emergency meeting of its board.””
“Why?””
“She claims that the public allegations have damaged her reputation and that she needs to address concerns about the charity's operations.””
My father, who had been listening on speakerphone, frowned.
“When is the meeting?””
“Tomorrow afternoon.””
“And Julian will be there?””
“We understand he has been asked to attend.””
After the call ended, I sat beside my aunt and watched the sunlight move across the floor.
Corisande had spent years using the foundation as proof that she was a good person.
She had built a public identity around compassion while making sure I was too frightened to describe what happened at home.
Now her money, her documents, and her own words were beginning to tell a different story.
But the next day, she would have an audience again.
She would have donors, board members, lawyers, and people who had admired her for years.
She would have every opportunity to tell them that I was a liar.
My phone buzzed.
An email had arrived from an unfamiliar address.
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
Only a single attachment and one sentence.
Before you let her tell her version, watch the entire recording from the party.
I looked at my aunt.
She leaned closer.
The attachment was a video file labeled *DINING ROOM CAMERA — FULL LENGTH*.
I opened it.
The picture showed the dining room before the guests arrived.
Corisande entered the frame alone.
She walked to a small side table, placed a phone beneath a stack of menus, and checked its position.
Then she stepped back and smiled.
Not the smile she used for photographs.
A private smile.
A smile that made the skin on my arms rise.
She looked toward the staircase.
May you like
And said, clearly enough for the camera to record every word:
“Let's see if we can finally get the little liar to show everyone what she really is.””
