Chapter 3: The Person Who Knew My Password
I didn't sleep that night.
At 2:13 a.m., I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor with my laptop balanced on a cardboard box, staring at the screenshot until my eyes burned.
The reflection was blurry.
A gold band. A familiar hand. A sleeve that looked like the gray cardigan Mom wore when she worked from home.
It wasn't proof that she'd withdrawn my scholarship.
It was proof that someone had taken a picture of my account while standing in front of my laptop.
And someone had sent it to an unknown email address with the words She won't be leaving now.
I saved everything to a new folder and copied it to a flash drive.
Then I heard a floorboard creak outside my door.
I closed the laptop.
A thin line of light appeared beneath the door, followed by a soft knock.
“Zarya?””
Camille.
I opened the door a few inches.
She stood in the hallway wearing pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, her arms wrapped around herself.
“What are you doing awake?”” I whispered.
She glanced toward Mom's bedroom.
“I heard you crying.””
“I wasn't crying.””
“Okay.””
She shifted her weight.
“Can I come in?””
I stepped aside.
Camille sat on the edge of my bed and picked at a loose thread on the comforter. For once, she wasn't wearing her usual expression of bored irritation.
“Is the scholarship really gone?”” she asked.
“They canceled it. I'm appealing.””
“But if they don't give it back…”
“I'll figure something out.””
She looked down.
“Mom says you can't leave us right now.””
I felt the anger rise again, but I swallowed it.
“Camille, do you want me to stay?””
Her head snapped up.
“That's not fair.””
“It's a question.””
She stood and began pacing.
“You act like everything is easy for you. You get good grades. Teachers love you.
You got this scholarship. Everyone thinks you're some kind of saint.””
“I work two jobs, Camille.””
“So?””
“So I don't have time to be a saint!””
My voice came out too loud.
We both froze.
I lowered it.
“I'm not angry because you need me. I'm angry because nobody asks what I need.””
Camille stared at the carpet.
For a moment, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she said, “Mom's been crying in her room.””
I let out a tired breath.
“Did she tell you why?””
“She says she can't afford to lose you.””
“I have a full scholarship.””
“That's not what she means.””
I looked at her.
Camille pressed her lips together.
“She says everything will fall apart if you leave.””
The words settled between us.
I wanted to tell Camille that things had already fallen apart. That I had spent years holding pieces together with my own hands while pretending I wasn't bleeding.
But she was sixteen.
She was still young enough to believe our mother had all the answers.
“Go back to bed,” I said quietly.
“We'll talk tomorrow.””
Camille stood.
At the door, she stopped.
“Zarya?””
“Yeah?””
“Don't tell Mom I came in here.””
I watched her disappear into the hallway.
Then I looked at my closed laptop.
Why was she afraid of our mother finding out she'd talked to me?
At breakfast, the house smelled of burnt toast and the coffee Mom drank when she was trying to stay awake after a late shift.
I came downstairs at seven, carrying my flash drive in my pocket.
Mom stood at the counter, scraping blackened bread into the trash.
Nia sat at the table coloring a picture of a purple house.
Camille was nowhere to be seen.
“Morning,” Mom said without looking at me.
I pulled out a chair.
“Did you sleep?””
“Not much.””
“Me neither.””
She placed a plate in front of me.
Two slices of toast. One egg.
It was the sort of breakfast she'd made when I was little, before the bills and the exhaustion had become the center of everything.
For a second, I almost let myself be comforted.
Then she said, “I've been thinking about your scholarship.””
I set down my fork.
“Okay.””
“You should stop telling people it was stolen.””
“I haven't told anyone that.””
“You implied it last night.””
“I said someone accessed my account without permission.””
“Same thing.””
“No, it isn't.””
She sat across from me.
“Zarya, families make mistakes. Sometimes people do things because they're frightened. You shouldn't destroy your relationship with your sisters over a computer error.””
I stared at her.
“A computer error doesn't write an email saying I won't be leaving.””
Her fingers stopped moving around her coffee mug.
“What email?””
The question came too quickly.
I felt a chill travel down my back.
I hadn't told her about the email.
I hadn't mentioned the attachment or the reflection.
I hadn't said anything about the words She won't be leaving now.
I leaned forward.
“What makes you think there was an email?””
Mom blinked.
“You said the university contacted you.””
“They did.””
“So maybe they sent you something.””
“Maybe.””
We stared at each other.
Then she stood abruptly.
“I have to get ready for work.””
“Mom.””
She stopped near the sink.
“Did you use my laptop yesterday?””
Her shoulders stiffened.
“I use that laptop all the time.””
“Did you log into my student portal?””
She turned.
“Are you interrogating me in my own kitchen?””
“I'm asking you a question.””
“And I'm telling you to stop treating me like a criminal.””
She picked up her purse and walked toward the front door.
Before leaving, she looked back at me.
“You have until August to make a decision about this family. Don't expect me to support you if you choose to walk away.””
The door slammed.
Nia's crayon rolled off the table.
I picked it up and placed it beside her drawing.
“Is Zarya still going to college?”” she asked.
I looked at her small face.
“I'm trying, sweetheart.””
She nodded, then returned to coloring.
A minute later, she held up the picture.
It showed four stick figures beneath a bright yellow sun. One was tall, with long black hair. Two were small. The fourth wore a dress and stood apart from the others.
“That's you,” Nia said, pointing at the tall figure.
“That's me. That's Camille. And that's Mommy.””
I studied the drawing.
“Why is Mommy over there?””
Nia shrugged.
“She said I should draw a picture of our family the way it will look when you leave.””
The crayon slipped from my fingers.
“When did she say that?””
“Yesterday.””
My throat tightened.
“Before the party?””
Nia nodded.
“She was talking to Camille in the kitchen. She said we needed to get used to things changing.””
I forced myself to breathe.
“What else did she say?””
Nia frowned, trying to remember.
“She said something about your school money. Camille told her not to worry because she could help.””
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
“Help how?””
“I don't know. Camille said she'd do what Mommy asked.””
Nia went back to her drawing, humming softly.
I sat perfectly still.
Camille had been upstairs with me the night before. She'd looked frightened when I asked if she wanted me to stay.
And now Nia was telling me she'd heard Camille promise to help our mother.
I wanted to dismiss it. Children misunderstood things. A conversation about chores could become something else in a ten-year-old's memory.
But my scholarship had been withdrawn at 8:16 a.m.
The same morning I'd been packing Nia's lunch.
The same morning someone had access to my laptop.
I waited until Nia finished breakfast, then took her upstairs to get ready for camp. Afterward, I returned to the kitchen and searched the shared laptop's recent activity.
The browser history had been cleared.
Not everything, though.
A saved login remained in the password manager. My university portal was listed beneath a profile labeled *Camille's Schoolwork*.
I clicked the entry.
A warning appeared.
*Last password access: Yesterday, 7:58 a.m.*
Twelve minutes before the scholarship withdrawal.
My mouth went dry.
I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Camille stood in the doorway, holding a glass of orange juice.
Her gaze moved from my face to the laptop screen.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she placed the glass on the counter.
“Zarya,” she whispered, “I can explain.””
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
“You logged into my account?””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I didn't know she'd actually do it.””
The words struck harder than any denial could have.
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“Who?””
Camille covered her mouth.
“Please don't make me say it.””
“Who withdrew my scholarship?””
She began to cry.
I had seen Camille cry when boys broke up with her, when she failed a test, when Mom took her phone away. Usually, she fought to hide it until she could lock herself in the bathroom.
This time, she didn't bother.
She sank into a chair and pressed both palms against her eyes.
“Mom said you were going to leave us with nothing,” she whispered.
“She said if you went away, she'd lose her job because she couldn't afford childcare. She said Nia would suffer, and I'd have to drop out of my activities to help.””
I stared at her.
“So you gave her my password?””
Camille shook her head frantically.
“No. I showed her where it was saved. She said she only wanted to look at the scholarship conditions.””
“When?””
“Yesterday morning.””
“And the withdrawal?””
“I swear I didn't do it.””
“Then why did you say you didn't know she'd actually do it?””
Camille looked up at me.
Because she was my sister, I recognized the expression on her face.
It was the same one she wore when she'd broken something and was trying to decide whether telling the truth would make things worse.
“Because she asked me to send her the verification code,” she whispered.
My knees felt weak.
“What?””
“She said she needed to check something in your account. She told me it was just to see whether your housing was refundable. I sent her the code.””
“From whose phone?””
“Mine. She said the university would send another one if she needed it.””
I closed my eyes.
The recovery number. The laptop. The verification code.
Everything Dean Parker had described.
My mother hadn't needed to guess my password.
My sister had opened the door for her.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
Camille started sobbing harder.
“Because Mom said you'd hate me. She said you'd never forgive me if you found out I helped her.””
I stepped away from the counter.
For a moment, I couldn't look at her.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to ask how she could have watched me work six years of my life away and still helped someone take the one thing I'd earned for myself.
But underneath the anger was something worse.
Understanding.
Camille was sixteen. She'd been raised in the same house, under the same rules, listening to the same speeches about sacrifice and loyalty.
Mom had taught all of us that love meant doing what she needed.
And she'd taught us that disobedience meant hurting the family.
I crouched in front of Camille.
“Listen to me. I need the truth, even if it hurts. Did Mom tell you to withdraw the scholarship?””
Camille wiped her face with her sleeve.
“No. She said she was going to handle it herself.””
“Did she show you anything afterward?””
Camille hesitated.
Then she reached into the pocket of her pajama shorts and pulled out her phone.
“I took a screenshot,” she whispered.
“Because I thought if something went wrong, I'd need to prove I didn't do it.””
She unlocked the phone and handed it to me.
The image showed my student portal, the withdrawal confirmation, and the timestamp.
But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.
At the top of the screen was a notification from Mom.
*Delete this when you're done. And don't tell Zarya. She'll understand once she realizes how much she owes us.*
I read it twice.
Then a second message appeared beneath it, sent three minutes later.
*There's one more thing you need to do before she finds out.*
I looked at Camille.
“What else did she ask you to do?””
My sister began shaking her head.
“Zarya, I didn't. I swear I didn't do it.””
“Do what?””
She opened her messages, scrolled down, and turned the phone toward me.
There was a photograph of a document.
My university's housing agreement.
Beside it was a message from our mother.
*Find the acceptance paperwork in her room. We need to make sure she can't appeal this.*
I stared at the screen, unable to breathe.
My scholarship hadn't simply been canceled.
May you like
My mother had been planning to stop me from leaving long before Dean Parker arrived at our door.
And somewhere in my bedroom, she believed there was something else she could use to make sure I never got the chance.
