Chapter 3
My second day back in Oakhaven—October 15th.
Transfer day.
I opened my banking app and typed in 3,500 dollars.
My finger hovered over the "confirm" button.
A 107,000-dollar BMW X7.
A pair of 630-dollar sneakers.
A 1,199-dollar vacuum.
A 100-dollar-per-head sushi dinner.
My finger hovered, but I couldn't bring myself to hit confirm.
I closed the app.
First day, no word.
Second day, still nothing.
On the third night, Mom finally messaged me.
Mom: [Avery, did you forget to send this month's money? No rush, just don't forget.]
I sent an "OK" emoji and didn't bother saying anything else.
Day four, another message.
Mom: [Avery? Are you short on cash? If you are, just send 3,000 dollars this month, that's fine.]
I didn't reply.
By day five, the phone rang—Mom was calling.
"Avery, are you going to send the transfer or not? Liam has to make his car payment by the first of the month!" Mom pressed.
"Mom, how much is he paying for that car every month?" I asked.
"Just over 1,700 dollars," Mom replied.
"He can't cover that himself? I thought he just closed a massive deal for the startup," I pushed.
Mom went quiet for a few seconds.
"The payouts from those deals take time, you know how it works," she said.
"Mom, I'm a little short this month," I said.
"How are you short? You're making over 10K dollars a month! Are you hiding something? Is some guy tricking you out of your paycheck?" Mom shot back.
"No," I replied.
"Then where is all your money going?" Mom pressed.
I gripped my phone, my throat tight with a scream I couldn't let out.
Where did it all go?
Every month, I send them 6,500 dollars. Rent is 1,800, gas and insurance are 200, the phone bill is 100, and utilities are another 100.
The rest? Groceries and the bare essentials just to keep my head above water.
I haven't bought myself a single piece of clothing over 60 dollars in three years.
But I kept the numbers to myself.
"Mom, I'll send it in a few days," I said.
Three more days dragged by.
I still hadn't touched the banking app.
Mom graduated from calling once a day to hounding me every few hours.
And her voice got sharper, more jagged, with every single ring.
Mom snapped, "Avery, what the hell is this supposed to be?
"You think you're too big for this family now?
"Your dad is looking down on you! Are you really going to spit on his memory like this?"
That line left me paralyzed for a long time.
Sorry, Dad.
Maybe I really am a failure.
You told me to take care of Mom and Liam before you went.
But you never mentioned how many years I was supposed to sign away.
October 31st.
The end of the line.
The 6,500 dollars never hit the account.
For the first time in eight years, the well ran dry.
*****
By November, Mom's calls took on a jagged, desperate edge.
The gentle reminders were dead and buried.
Now, she just spent every minute on the line shredding my character.
Mom screamed, "You're a selfish little brat! Was raising you just a waste of my life?
"I worked my fingers to the bone to pay for that degree, Avery!
"If your brother loses everything, don't you dare come looking for my forgiveness!"
My hands vibrated every time I hit the end-call button.
It wasn't even pure rage.
It was a leftover reflex from childhood—the second Mom raised her voice, my spine turned to water.
On November 4th, Liam finally rang.
His voice sounded even more entitled than Mom's.
"Avery, have you lost your mind? You're really going to hold out over six grand?" Liam barked.
"Liam, tell me exactly what your 'startup' has produced this year," I countered.
"What I do isn't your business! I'm family—you're supposed to have my back, period!" Liam snapped.
God, he actually had the nerve to say it out loud.
But that was the script we'd been following for years.
I stayed silent, which only fueled his entitlement.
"You're a single girl living in Oakhaven—what could you possibly be buying? You're loaded, and if you aren't taking care of your own blood, who are you even working for?" Liam spat.
"It's my paycheck, Liam. I'll burn it in the street if I feel like it," I countered.
The line went dead quiet for a beat.
"Excuse me?" Liam demanded.
"I said it's my money, and I'm done asking for permission to keep it," I repeated, my voice like iron.
Liam let out a sharp, condescending laugh.
"Avery, you think Mom won't cut you out of this family for good?" he sneered.
"Let her," I replied, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an argument.
I disconnected the call.
My fingertips were numb, like ice.
But being an outcast felt a hell of a lot better than staring at a bank balance of exactly 107 dollars every month.
On November 8th, the family group chat finally hit the boiling point.
Aunt Sarah was the first to fire a shot.
Sarah: [Avery, your mother has been calling me in tears for days. How can you be so heartless to your own mother?]
Then Uncle Bob jumped into the dogpile.
Bob: [Your father worshiped the ground you walked on. Is this really the way you honor his memory?]
Then my cousin Maggie had to put her two cents in.
Maggie: [Liam is killing himself trying to get this company off the ground. Aren't you supposed to be the one who has his back?]
The notification light on my phone wouldn't stop flickering as dozens of messages flooded the thread.
I scrolled through the sea of text, and every single word was a strike against me.
Not one person bothered to ask the basic questions.
"How's life treating you in Oakhaven?"
"Is your rent breaking the bank this month?"
"Are you even taking care of yourself?"
Zero. Not a soul cared.
I finally typed out a response and hit send.
Me: [Sarah, Bob, Maggie—have any of you ever cut Liam a check for a single cent?]
The chat froze instantly, the typing bubbles vanishing.
Three minutes of dead air passed before Sarah finally surfaced.
Sarah: [We're just extended family, but you're his sister—that's a completely different obligation.]
I tapped the settings icon and left the group.
That night, I stood in my kitchen and boiled a cheap pack of ramen.
I used to eat this stuff because I was literally starving.
Tonight, I just didn't have the soul left to cook a real meal.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, slurping noodles and snapping screenshots of my bank transfers from the last eight years.
I saved them one by one—ninety-six digital receipts of my stolen life.
I dumped every file into a secure cloud folder.
I stared at the "New Folder" prompt for a long time, my thumb hovering.
Finally, I typed out the name "Evidence."