“Mom,” I whispered.
The word scraped against my swollen throat.
Six hours earlier, I had been standing inside my parents’ beautiful Philadelphia mansion, holding a folder that could destroy everything our family had built.
My mother, Celia Vale, had looked at the documents and smiled.
“Where did you get these, Tessa?”
“That’s not important.
The missing money is.”
Her smile disappeared.
My father, Richard, stood beside the fireplace, staring into his glass of whiskey.
My younger sister, Emma, sat on the staircase with her phone.
“You really should have left this alone,” Mother said.
I remember answering, “People are losing their homes because of what you’ve done.”
Then she slapped me.
I stumbled backward.
Before I could recover, she struck me again.
