Chapter 3: The Account With No Name
On Saturday morning, Dad took me to a small café near the park.
He said he had some errands to run and wanted to spend time with me before heading to the office.
I knew that wasn't the whole truth.
He had barely slept the night before. I had heard him walking around downstairs after midnight, opening drawers and moving papers across his desk.
But I didn't ask questions.
At the café, he ordered pancakes for me and black coffee for himself.
I cut my pancakes into tiny squares while he watched me with a thoughtful expression.
"Chloe, can I ask you something?""
I nodded.
"Has Simone ever asked you to keep secrets from me?""
My fork stopped.
"Like what?""
"Anything. Money, gifts, things that happened in the house.""
I stared at my plate.
"She said I shouldn't tell you when she gets mad because you already have too much to worry about.""
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Has she ever threatened to hurt you?""
I thought about the times she had grabbed my wrist, the way she stood in my doorway when she wanted me to feel small.
"Not really.""
Dad didn't look satisfied with the answer.
"Chloe, you don't have to protect anyone from the truth. Not even me.""
I swallowed.
"She says I'm expensive.""
He blinked.
"What?""
"She says you spend too much money on me because you feel guilty about Mommy.""
Dad leaned back as if the words had struck him physically.
I hurried to explain.
"I don't ask for much. I promise. I can stop asking for things.""
He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
"Sweetheart, you are not expensive. You're my daughter.""
My eyes filled.
"I just don't want you to be sad.""
Dad squeezed my hand.
"Then let me worry about the grown-up problems. That's my job.""
He didn't say anything else until the waitress brought our check.
Then he asked whether I wanted to visit the park.
We spent nearly an hour walking along the pond, watching ducks paddle through the water and listening to children shout from the playground.
For a little while, I almost forgot about the notebook.
Almost.
When we returned home, Dad went straight into his office.
I sat at the dining table and worked on a school assignment about family traditions.
My teacher had asked us to describe something our family did every year.
I wrote about the Christmas cookies Mom used to bake.
Then I crossed it out.
Simone didn't like me talking about Mom.
I tried again.
My family enjoys spending time together during the holidays.
The sentence looked wrong.
It looked like something written by a child who wanted to avoid getting in trouble.
I erased it so hard that the paper tore.
A few minutes later, Simone came into the dining room.
She was carrying a shopping bag from a department store.
She placed it on the table and removed a pair of expensive leather boots.
"Do you like these?"" she asked.
I glanced at them.
"They're nice.""
"They cost more than your father's old boots.""
She laughed as though it were a joke.
Then she pulled a receipt from the bag and waved it in front of me.
"Four hundred and eighty dollars. That's what quality costs.""
I stared at the receipt.
I didn't know why she was showing it to me.
She leaned against the table.
"Your father thinks every dollar needs to be accounted for now. Imagine that. After everything I do for this family.""
I lowered my eyes.
"Did you tell him about the boots?""
Her smile disappeared.
"Excuse me?""
"I just asked if you told him.""
Simone placed the receipt on my homework.
"You have become very bold lately.""
I reached for the paper.
She held it down with two fingers.
"Do you think your father will keep believing you when he realizes what you've done to this family?""
"I haven't done anything.""
"Exactly. That's the problem. You sit around expecting everyone to give you things.""
She picked up the receipt and tore it in half.
Then she dropped the pieces into my pencil case.
"Clean up your mess.""
She walked away, leaving the shopping bag on the table.
I stared at the torn receipt.
My hands were shaking again.
But this time, I didn't cry.
I took out my notebook and wrote a new entry.
Saturday — Simone bought boots for $480. She said Daddy was asking about money.
Then I added another sentence.
She is scared.
I didn't know whether it was true.
I only knew that she had looked different since Dad began checking the accounts.
She had stopped leaving her purse on the kitchen counter.
She had started carrying her phone everywhere, even into the laundry room.
And whenever Dad's phone rang, she watched his face.
That afternoon, Dad asked me to stay in my room while he made a few calls.
I heard the office door close.
Then his voice came through the hallway.
"Yes, I'd like to review every transfer from the joint account over the last eighteen months.""
A pause.
"No, I don't recognize the recipient.""
Another pause.
"Can you tell me when that account was opened?""
I pressed my ear against the door.
Dad's voice became quieter.
"Under her name?""
My stomach tightened.
He was silent for so long that I thought the call had dropped.
Then he said, "Please send me the records.""
When I went downstairs later, Dad was sitting at his desk with his laptop open.
Several bank statements lay beside the keyboard.
He didn't notice me at first.
I saw columns of numbers on the screen and a list of transactions marked with red circles.
At the bottom of the page was a name.
*Simone Carter.*
Below it was a bank account number and a date from shortly after her wedding to Dad.
I stepped into the room.
"Daddy?""
He closed the laptop halfway.
"Hey, sweetheart.""
"Did you find out where the money went?""
Dad looked at me carefully.
"I'm starting to.""
"Is Simone going to be angry?""
He sighed.
"She might be.""
I wrapped my arms around myself.
"Then maybe you should stop looking.""
He immediately shook his head.
"No.""
"But—"
"Chloe, listen to me."" He turned his chair toward me.
"If someone has been taking money that belongs to you, we have to understand why. Being afraid of someone's reaction doesn't make what they're doing okay.""
I stared at the floor.
"Even if they're family?""
"Especially then.""
He opened the laptop again.
A moment later, his phone rang.
He answered it on speaker.
"Hello?""
A woman introduced herself as a representative from the bank's fraud review department.
She confirmed that the account had been opened by Simone shortly after the wedding. It was a separate account, not the joint account Dad used for household expenses.
Dad frowned.
"Was money transferred into it from our joint account?""
"Yes, Mr. Hayes. There have been recurring transfers over the past year and a half.""
"How much?""
The representative read the total.
Dad went completely still.
I couldn't hear the number clearly, but I saw his hand tighten around the edge of the desk.
"You're saying more than twelve thousand dollars?""
"That's correct, sir.""
He looked at the statements.
"Where did those funds go after they entered the account?""
"Some transactions appear to have been made through third-party payment services. We can provide the transaction records through the appropriate verification process.""
Dad thanked her and ended the call.
For a long time, he didn't speak.
I climbed into the chair opposite him.
"Twelve thousand dollars is a lot, isn't it?""
He nodded slowly.
"Yes, sweetheart. It is.""
"Could she have used it to buy the boots?""
"Maybe. But I don't think the boots explain everything.""
He opened another document.
This time, the transactions were grouped by date.
There were transfers every Friday, almost like clockwork.
Sometimes three hundred dollars.
Sometimes five hundred.
Sometimes more than a thousand.
Dad clicked on one of the larger payments.
A description appeared beside it.
*Online payment processing.*
He opened another.
The same description.
Then another.
His face changed.
"What is it?"" I whispered.
He didn't answer immediately.
He scrolled through the records, opened the details of several payments, and began writing figures on a yellow legal pad.
Then he reached for his phone and called Aunt Melissa.
She answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Derek. Did you find anything?""
"I found a separate account. There's been money moving through it for eighteen months.""
"How much?""
"More than twelve thousand dollars so far.""
Melissa was silent.
Then she asked, "Do you know what she's spending it on?""
"I'm trying to find out.""
"Have you checked the payment descriptions?""
"I'm looking at them now.""
He read a few aloud.
Melissa let out a sharp breath.
"Derek, those look like gambling transactions.""
Dad stopped writing.
"What?""
"I helped a client untangle something similar last year. Those payment processors were connected to online betting sites.""
Dad looked at the screen again.
"You're sure?""
"No. I'm saying it's possible. Don't accuse her until you have the records.""
Dad thanked her and hung up.
I stared at the laptop.
"What's gambling?""
Dad closed his eyes for a moment.
"It's when people risk money on games or bets, hoping to win more.""
"Like the lottery?""
"Sometimes. But it can become a serious problem when people keep spending money they can't afford to lose.""
I thought about the disappearing bills.
The birthday envelope.
The coins from my piggy bank.
"Did Simone lose all that money?""
"I don't know yet.""
He turned toward me.
"But I promise you, we'll find out.""
That evening, Dad asked Simone to join him in the living room.
I sat on the staircase where I could hear them without being seen.
He had placed the bank statements on the coffee table.
Simone entered with a bowl of popcorn, apparently expecting an ordinary family evening.
When she saw the papers, she stopped.
"What is all this?""
Dad gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit down.""
She didn't move.
"Why?""
"Because I have questions about the transfers from our joint account.""
Simone set the popcorn bowl down too hard. Several pieces bounced onto the carpet.
"I told you already. Those were personal expenses.""
"Then you won't mind explaining the separate account you opened after our wedding.""
Her face drained of color.
For a moment, she looked toward the staircase.
I ducked behind the wall.
Then she turned back to Dad.
"You went through my private banking information?""
"I reviewed the transactions from our joint account. The money went into your separate account.""
"That doesn't give you the right to invade my privacy.""
"Simone, more than twelve thousand dollars is missing.""
"It's not missing!""
"Then where is it?""
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Dad lifted one of the statements.
"And why are there recurring payments to online payment processors?""
Simone stared at the page.
Then she laughed.
It was a strange, brittle sound.
"You've been talking to Melissa, haven't you? She's always hated me.""
"Answer the question.""
Simone stood up.
"I don't have to sit here while you interrogate me like a criminal.""
Dad rose too.
"I want the truth.""
"You want someone to blame because your daughter has turned this house against me!""
"Chloe didn't transfer twelve thousand dollars into a private account.""
Simone's eyes flashed.
"You have no idea what I've done for this family!""
"Then tell me.""
She grabbed her handbag from the chair.
"Fine. If you want to know where the money went, maybe you should ask your precious little daughter why she needs so much in the first place.""
Dad stepped between Simone and the staircase.
"Leave Chloe out of this.""
Simone looked past him toward the hallway.
"She's the reason I needed the money.""
My heart seemed to stop.
Dad stared at her.
"What did you just say?""
Simone clutched her handbag so tightly that the leather creaked.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "You have no idea what I've been paying for.""
Dad's expression hardened.
"Then explain it.""
She looked at the papers scattered across the coffee table.
And for the first time, I saw tears gather in her eyes.
Not the kind she used when she wanted Dad to feel sorry for her.
These were different.
She looked terrified.
"I can't," she whispered.
Dad took one step closer.
"Why not?""
Simone shook her head.
"Because if you find out who the money was really for, you'll never look at me the same way again.""
She turned toward the front door.
Dad didn't follow her.
Instead, he picked up the last statement from the coffee table.
A transaction dated three days earlier had been highlighted in yellow.
The recipient's name was partially hidden by a fold in the paper.
Dad carefully flattened it.
Then he read the name.
His face turned white.
I stepped out from behind the staircase.
"Daddy?""
He looked at me, but for several seconds, he seemed unable to speak.
Finally, he whispered a name I had never heard before.
"Daniel Carter.""
Simone's brother.
The man she had once told Dad had died years ago.
And beneath his name was a payment large enough to explain why she had been stealing money from our household.
May you like
But it still didn't explain why she'd told us he was dead.
Or why the next scheduled transfer was set to arrive on Monday morning.
