Chapter 3

I paid and walked out of the print shop. Instead of going back to the warehouse, I headed to the bus stop outside the wholesale market. I needed to go to the bank.

The bus rattled along for forty minutes, and I sat in the back row by the window with the document folder clutched tight against my chest.

Outside, the city I'd lived in for twenty-eight years rolled past. Gleaming shopping districts gave way to rundown apartment complexes, and glass-walled office towers stood right next to houses marked for demolition.

My clothing store existed somewhere in between, not new, not old, not thriving, not failing, just barely surviving.

The bank's air conditioning hit me like a wall of ice the second I stepped inside, and goosebumps prickled across my arms. The teller was a young woman with an "Intern" badge pinned to her chest.

"Hi, how can I help you today?" she asked.

"I need to print my transfer records from the past six years," I said, and set my folder down on the counter. "All of them. The recipient account name is Emily Lane."

The girl typed away at her computer for a moment, and her expression turned uncertain. "Ma'am, six years of records is a lot. It's going to take some time to print, and it'll be really long."

"I don't care how long it is," I said and pulled my ID from the folder to hand it over. "I need all of it."

While I waited, I sat on one of those cold metal chairs and watched people move through the bank lobby.

A mother balanced her child on one hip. At the same time, she used the ATM, an elderly man slowly filled out a wire transfer form with shaking hands, and a young couple leaned close together at the financial planning desk.

Everyone had their own story, their own bills, their own struggles.

An hour later, the intern walked over with a thick stack of paper in her arms, and her expression looked apologetic. "Ma'am, it came out to two hundred and seventy-three pages. My manager said we need to charge a small printing fee."

"That's fine," I said and took the stack from her. The paper still held warmth from the printer, and rows of numbers and dates covered every page like some silent accusation.

I started flipping through from the beginning. September 3rd, 2017, transfer of 16 thousand dollars. October 15th, 2017, transfer of 10 thousand dollars. December 22nd, 2017, transfer of 3 thousand dollars.

I reached the last page. April 17th, 2023, transfer of 16 thousand dollars. The memo line showed the words I'd typed myself: [Have fun on your graduation trip.]

I stuffed the bank statements into the document folder along with the photocopied ledger and zipped it shut. The folder bulged now, and it felt heavy and real when I held it against my chest.

By the time I walked out of the bank, the sky had gone dark. The summer evening painted everything in murky orange and red. I stood on the sidewalk and pulled out my phone to text Emily.

[Got the subpoena. I'll be there on time for the hearing next Wednesday.]

She replied almost instantly. [Grace, did you hire a lawyer? Do you need me to recommend someone? Henry says if you're willing to settle, he can help negotiate a decent deal.]

I stared at those words on my screen and suddenly remembered that night six years ago. After our parents' funeral ended, all the relatives left, and it was just the two of us at home.

Emily curled up on the couch, hugging her knees, and her eyes were swollen like peaches. I made two bowls of mac and cheese and brought them over to her.

"Eat something," I said.

She shook her head, and tears started falling again. "Grace, I'm scared."

I sat down next to her and pulled her close. "Don't be scared. I'm here."

Neither of us touched that mac and cheese. It went cold, and a film formed on top.

The next day, I started running around handling the insurance claims, property transfers, and bank paperwork. Emily locked herself in her room and didn't come out for three days.

My phone buzzed again. Henry sent me a message. [Hello, Ms. Lane, I'm Attorney Henry Warren. I'd like to discuss your sister's case with you.]

I didn't reply to it.

Instead, I opened my contacts and found a name I hadn't called in a long time.

Michael Young was my high school classmate who studied law in college and worked at a small local firm after graduation. At last year's reunion, he handed me his business card and told me to reach out if I ever needed anything.

The phone rang three times before he picked up.

"Hello? Grace?" Michael sounded surprised. "Long time no hear from. What made you think of calling me?"

"Michael," I said, and my voice was so calm it surprised even me. "I need a lawyer."

Michael's law office was in an old building, and the elevator creaked as it moved, like it might get stuck at any moment.

I pressed the button for the seventh floor, and the elevator climbed slowly while the lights flickered on and off in the cramped space.

At the end of the seventh-floor hallway, faded gold letters on a frosted glass door read "Young & Associates Law Office."

I pushed through the door and found the reception desk empty. The office only had two desks, and one was buried under case files.

Michael stood up from behind the other desk. He looked thinner than he had at last year's reunion, and dark circles showed behind his glasses.

Michael gestured to the chair across from him. "Grace, have a seat." He turned to the water cooler, filled a cup, and handed it to me. "You said you needed a lawyer. What's going on?"

I set the document folder on his desk and pulled out the complaint.

Michael took it and pushed his glasses up. He skimmed through the pages quickly. His expression shifted from confused to surprised, and then settled into something complicated and serious.

When he finished, he looked up at me. "Your sister Emily? The one you said was getting her PhD abroad when you came to the reunion last year?"

"Yeah," I said.

Michael's voice filled with disbelief. "She's suing you for misappropriating your parents' inheritance? Two hundred and ninety thousand dollars? All of it?"

"All of it," I said.

Michael took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Tell me everything from the beginning. The more detail, the better."

I started with my parents' death and moved through the 290 thousand dollars, Emily's study abroad, the payments I'd sent over six years, the last seventeen thousand three months ago, yesterday's phone call, and today's summons.