Chapter 9: The Voice Behind the Fire
Margaret sent the recording the following morning.
I listened to it alone.
The audio began with the sound of a door closing.
Then my mother's voice.
“Did you sign the statement?””
Brielle answered.
“Yes.””
“Did you read it?””
“No.””
“Good. That's better.””
There was a pause.
Then Brielle asked, “What if Nia finds out?””
Vanessa laughed.
“She won't.””
“What if Dad tells her?””
“Your father doesn't know half of what happens in this house.””
I stopped the recording.
My hands were shaking.
I knew I should continue.
But hearing my mother's voice discussing me as if I were an obstacle made my stomach turn.
I pressed play again.
Brielle spoke.
“I don't think it's fair.””
“What isn't fair?””
“Taking her money.””
Vanessa sighed.
“Brielle, listen to me. Your grandmother left that money because she felt guilty about how little attention she gave Nia.””
“But it's still hers.””
“Don't be foolish. You're the one who understands fashion. You're the one with ambition. You need the resources.””
“And Nia?””
“She'll be fine.””
There was a pause.
Then Vanessa said something that made my entire body go cold.
“She doesn't need much. She's always been happy with leftovers.””
I stopped the recording.
For a long time, I couldn't move.
I thought about every birthday when Brielle had received a larger gift.
Every school event where my achievements had been dismissed.
Every time my mother had told me to be understanding.
She hadn't simply favored Brielle.
She had built an entire system around the idea that Brielle deserved more because she wanted more.
And I was supposed to accept less because I had learned how to survive with it.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Dad.
Come downstairs when you're ready. We need to talk.
I wiped my face and went down.
Dad was sitting at the dining table.
Margaret was beside him, and a lawyer I hadn't met before was reviewing some papers.
Dad looked up.
“Did you listen?””
I nodded.
He reached for my hand.
“I'm sorry.””
I looked at him.
“For what?””
“For allowing your mother to make you feel invisible.””
I lowered my eyes.
“I thought you didn't notice.””
“I noticed some things. I ignored others because it was easier to believe everything was fine.””
He took a breath.
“That was wrong.””
The lawyer introduced herself as Rachel Morgan.
She explained that the financial institutions were continuing their investigation and that the disputed documents had been preserved.
She also explained that the trust remained separate from my parents' finances.
“Your grandmother was careful,” Rachel said.
“The trust was structured to protect your inheritance from unauthorized withdrawals.””
I nodded.
“Can Mom still access it?””
“No.””
“Can she sell the building?””
“No.””
“Can she borrow against it?””
“No.””
I looked at Dad.
He seemed relieved.
Rachel continued.
“There is also an issue involving the money already transferred to Brielle's account.””
I swallowed.
“What happens to that?””
“That depends on the outcome of the investigation and the legal claims. The funds may be subject to recovery proceedings.””
Dad leaned forward.
“What about the money Vanessa transferred from my account?””
“The bank is reviewing those transactions separately.””
I stared at the table.
It felt as though every adult in my life had suddenly become a stranger.
Rachel closed her folder.
“There's one more matter.””
She turned toward Dad.
“Mr. Carter, your wife has requested access to the marital accounts.””
Dad nodded.
“I expected that.””
“She claims the transactions were part of an informal family investment arrangement.””
“Can she prove that?””
Rachel shook her head.
“Not based on the documents we've reviewed.””
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“I want to separate our finances.””
I looked at him.
“Are you getting divorced?””
He paused.
“I don't know yet.””
I nodded.
I didn't want to tell him what to do.
I had spent too long watching people make decisions about my life without asking me.
I wasn't going to do the same to him.
That afternoon, Brielle knocked on my bedroom door.
I almost didn't answer.
But eventually I opened it.
She stood in the hallway holding a small box.
“Can I come in?””
I stepped aside.
She entered and sat at the edge of my desk chair.
“I know you heard the recording.””
I nodded.
She looked down.
“I didn't know Mom was going to say those things.””
“You knew what she was doing.””
Brielle swallowed.
“Yes.””
I leaned against the dresser.
“Why?””
She stared at the floor.
“Because I was scared of losing the life I had.””
“What life?””
“The boutique. The clothes. The money. The attention.””
I watched her.
She continued.
“Mom always told me I was going to be successful. She said I was special. That I had something you didn't.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“Confidence. Ambition. The ability to make people notice me.””
I laughed quietly.
“You think I don't have those things?””
She looked up.
“I don't know.””
I shook my head.
“You never asked.””
Her eyes filled.
“I know.””
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “I burned your dress because I was angry.””
I looked at her.
“Why?””
“Because Mom told me you were going to the scholarship gala. She said you were planning to present your portfolio.””
I frowned.
“What did that have to do with you?””
Brielle twisted her fingers.
“She said you were becoming difficult. That you were getting ideas about being independent. That if you started winning scholarships, you might stop listening to the family.””
I stared at her.
“So you burned it to stop me?””
She began crying.
“I wanted you to feel how I felt.””
“How did you feel?””
“Like you were getting something I couldn't control.””
I took a breath.
“You had everything, Brielle.””
“Not everything.””
“What did you want?””
She looked at me.
“To be the only daughter Grandma was proud of.””
I went still.
My grandmother had loved both of us.
But Brielle had always treated affection like a competition.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
“Grandma used to tell me that love isn't something you win.””
Brielle wiped her cheeks.
“She told me that too.””
I looked at her.
“Then why did you keep competing?””
She didn't answer.
After a while, she stood.
“I don't expect you to forgive me.””
“Good.””
She looked hurt.
But I continued.
“I need you to understand that being sorry doesn't mean everything goes back to normal.””
She nodded.
“I understand.””
Before leaving, she placed something on my desk.
It was a small photograph.
The two of us at Grandma's house.
I was seven.
Brielle was eight.
We were covered in paint, laughing beside an enormous sheet of paper.
Grandma stood behind us, holding two brushes.
On the back, she had written:
Two little artists. Two different dreams. Both equally precious.
I stared at it.
Brielle left without another word.
The following week, the scholarship committee contacted me.
They had received an anonymous complaint claiming that my portfolio contained copied artwork.
I read the email three times.
My heart pounded.
The complaint included photographs of three pieces from my collection.
They were my drawings.
My original work.
I had created them over two years.
I immediately contacted the committee and requested a review.
Mrs. Brooks helped me gather the original sketches and dated photographs.
Patricia, the seamstress, offered to provide a statement about the gown incident and the day I had brought my portfolio to her studio.
I also had digital files showing the dates each artwork was created.
The evidence was overwhelming.
But one detail bothered me.
The complaint had been submitted using an email address connected to my family's home internet account.
Dad checked the records.
The submission had come from Brielle's laptop.
He called her downstairs.
She entered the room and froze when she saw the email.
“Did you do this?”” he asked.
Brielle looked at the screen.
Then she shook her head.
“No.””
Dad turned the laptop toward her.
“It's your account.””
“I didn't send that!””
I stared at her.
“Who else uses your laptop?””
She hesitated.
Then her face changed.
“Mom.””
Dad leaned back.
“Why would your mother submit a complaint against Nia?””
Brielle looked at me.
And then she whispered something none of us expected.
“Because she knows about the scholarship money.””
I frowned.
“What scholarship money?””
Brielle swallowed.
“Mom told me the award was worth $100,000.””
My stomach tightened.
The scholarship wasn't simply a recognition award.
It included a substantial education grant and an additional creative development fund.
My mother had been trying to gain control of my inheritance.
Now she was attempting to damage the opportunity that might give me financial independence.
Dad picked up his phone.
“I'm calling Rachel.””
But before he could dial, my phone rang.
It was Margaret.
“Nia,” she said urgently, “we've received another document from the bank.””
“What is it?””
“A request to change the beneficiary information on your grandmother's trust.””
My blood ran cold.
“Who submitted it?””
Margaret paused.
Then she answered.
“Your mother.””
I closed my eyes.
“When?””
“Yesterday.””
I looked at Dad.
He had heard everything.
Then Margaret added one final detail.
“This time, she didn't use her own signature.””
I gripped the phone.
“Whose did she use?””
May you like
Margaret's answer made the room go silent.
“Your grandmother's.””
