Chương 8
“Mara.”
“No.”
“You’re blowing this up.”
I stared at her.
“The property manager you helped compromise just told me someone may have accessed records for twenty-three homes.”
“I did not compromise anything.”
“You gave her my information.”
“That was one statement.”
“Elise said multiple statements.”
Mom looked furious at being contradicted by evidence.
That expression had terrified me when I was fourteen.
At forty-one, it mostly made me tired.
Harris reached us.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
He glanced at Mom, then at the phone.
I gave him the shortest version I could.
Possible unauthorized access to a property-management account.
Owner information exported.
My email potentially accessed.
My mother involved in sharing account documents.
He did not react dramatically.
That helped.
He asked whether I wanted to make a formal report regarding suspected unauthorized computer access and misuse of the property.
“Yes.”
Mom stared at me.
“You’re filing a report against me?”
“I’m filing a report about what happened.”
“That is the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It will be when my name is in it.”
Harris said, “Ma’am, if you have information relevant to what occurred, it needs to be documented accurately.”
She looked at him.
“I didn’t hack anything.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“I barely know how to reset my own password.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She looked away.
For a second, I nearly laughed because Harris had used Dad’s tactic without knowing it.
Answer the question that was asked.
A skill my family apparently found revolutionary.
Elise whispered, “Mara, I should get a lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to fire me?”
“Yes.”
She made a small sound.
Not surprise.
Pain.
I hated that I felt anything about it.
She had lied to me.
She had rented out my home.
She had charged me for the consequences.
Still, I knew about her elderly dog, Jasper, who needed insulin twice a day.
I knew she hated driving over bridges.
I knew she kept peppermint tea in the office because coffee made her heart race.
People did not become strangers at the exact moment they betrayed you.
That would have been easier.
“I’m terminating your access immediately after the records are preserved,” I said.
“I understand.”
“Send me nothing unless your attorney advises it or law enforcement requests it.”
She went silent.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
I almost told her not to say it.
Instead, I ended the call.
Harris asked whether I could forward him the relevant screenshots once the report number was created.
I nodded.
Mom picked up her beach bag.
“So that’s it.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You destroy someone’s livelihood and call it responsible.”
My exhaustion vanished.
“You cannot possibly be talking about Elise’s livelihood.”
“She made mistakes.”
“She stole from me.”
“She borrowed access.”
I stared at her.
Even Harris looked at her then.
Mom’s cheeks colored.
“That came out wrong.”
“No.”
I put my phone into my pocket.
“I think it came out exactly right.”
She shook her head.
“You always choose the harshest interpretation.”
“You gave someone my private financial information.”
“I showed her statements because she needed to understand when the house was empty.”
Harris said, “You provided another person with records from your daughter’s email account?”
Mom’s eyes widened.
“I did not say I accessed her email.”
I felt a faint chill despite the heat.
“Then how did you get them?”
She looked at me.
“You sent me one.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
I frowned.
Then a memory surfaced.
Not because I searched for it.
Because I suddenly saw the kitchen table in my Atlanta townhouse, Dad complaining about homeowners insurance premiums while Mom insisted coastal property was a terrible investment.
I had forwarded her one statement after she accused me of exaggerating management costs.
One statement.
Maybe.
I pulled out my phone.
I searched sent mail.
There it was.
October.
A forwarded monthly owner statement.
Sent to Mom.
No password.
No account credentials.
No portal link that should have granted persistent access.
“That gives you one statement.”
She adjusted the strap of her beach bag.
“I may have saved attachments.”
“From where?”
She hesitated.
“Your laptop.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“My laptop.”
“At Thanksgiving.”
Dad was gone.
Brooke had left.
The cousins were scattered among hotels and highways.
Yet suddenly the whole family seemed crowded around me again.
Thanksgiving at my townhouse.
Mom in the den.
My work laptop closed on the side table.
My personal laptop upstairs.
Except at one point I had brought it down because Dad wanted me to look up airline prices for a spring trip.
I had left it open while I went to answer the door.
“You went through my computer.”
“I was looking for the insurance information.”
“You went through my computer.”
“You had already shown me the statement.”
“Then why did you need another one?”
“Because I wanted to compare them.”
I stared at her.
Harris asked, “Did you have permission to access the computer?”
Mom’s voice sharpened.
“She’s my daughter.”
He waited.
The silence forced her to hear herself.
“No,” she said finally.
A black sedan turned onto the road and slowed near the property.
For half a second, I assumed it was another relative returning for something.
Then the car stopped.
Dad got out of the passenger side.
Kyle was driving.
Dad walked toward us carrying a small overnight bag.
Mom stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
Dad stopped beside me.
“I got a room.”
“For us?”
“No.”
Her face went blank.
Kyle remained by the car.
He would not meet Mom’s eyes.
Dad looked at Harris.
“Officer, I think I have something she needs to know.”
Mom said, “Richard.”
He ignored her.
Dad reached into his overnight bag and removed a large brown envelope, creased at the corners.
I recognized Mom’s handwriting across the front.
Taxes.
Dad held it toward me.
“I found this in the glove compartment.”
Mom moved so quickly I barely processed it.
She grabbed for the envelope.
Dad pulled it back.
May you like
“Stop.”
“What are you doing?”
