Chapter 5 - THE BROTHER WHO NEEDED SAVING
Douglas called the next morning.
I almost didn't answer.
Then I remembered the photograph.
I pressed Accept.
“Sarah.”
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Why did you threaten me?”
“What?”
“You know what I'm talking about.”
There was silence.
“I didn't send that photograph.”
“Then who did?”
“I don't know.”
I believed him.
That was the first problem.
Because despite everything Douglas had done, I had known him my entire life.
He was selfish.
Spoiled.
Cowardly sometimes.
But I wasn't sure he was dangerous.
“Meet me,” he said.
“Where?”
“Somewhere public.”
We met at a coffee shop twenty minutes from my apartment.
Douglas looked terrible.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His eyes were red.
He looked nothing like the confident man in the photographs my parents had always shown off.
He sat across from me.
“I didn't know about the forged loan.”
“Did you know Dad was sending you my money?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
I stared at him.
“And you said nothing.”
“I was desperate.”
“So was I.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
I pulled out my phone.
I showed him Chloe's birthday photograph.
Then the picture someone had left at our door.
Douglas went pale.
“That's not Dad.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Dad doesn't know where Chloe's school is.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He doesn't.”
“Then who does?”
Douglas rubbed his face.
“Martin.”
The name again.
Martin Hale.
“The lawyer?”
Douglas nodded.
“He worked for me after the accident.”
“What does he know?”
“Everything.”
Douglas explained that Martin had originally represented his company.
After the worker died, Martin arranged settlements.
He also convinced Douglas to move money through several accounts.
“He said it was standard,” Douglas said.
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to believe him.”
I stared at my brother.
“Where is Martin now?”
“Still working with Dad.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Douglas looked at me.
“Because he knows where the bodies are buried.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like something from a movie.”
“I wish it were.”
Then Douglas reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a small flash drive.
“I copied this before I left the company.”
I didn't take it immediately.
“What is it?”
“Emails.”
“Between who?”
“Dad. Martin. Me.”
I looked at him.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I'm tired.”
His voice cracked.
“I thought Dad was saving me.”
He swallowed.
“He wasn't.”
He was protecting himself.
The flash drive contained hundreds of emails.
Some were ordinary.
Others were horrifying.
There were messages about the accident.
Payments.
Legal strategies.
Documents.
One email from Martin stood out.
“We need to ensure Sarah remains financially dependent on the family. The Friday transfers are ideal.”
I stopped breathing.
They had planned it.
Not the exact amount.
Not the birthday.
But the dependence.
They wanted me sending money because it made me useful.
Another email said:
“She believes she is helping her parents. Do not correct that assumption.”
I stared at the screen.
My brother covered his face.
“I didn't know about that.”
“You knew enough.”
“I know.”
For the first time, Douglas apologized.
Not defensively.
Not with excuses.
“I was selfish.”
“Yes.”
“I don't expect you to forgive me.”
“I don't.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
Then he said something unexpected.
“I'll testify.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“I'll tell the truth.”
“That could destroy you.”
“I know.”
He looked out the window.
“Maybe I deserve to lose everything.”
I didn't answer.
When I returned home, Rebecca reviewed the files.
Her expression became increasingly serious.
“This is significant.”
“Can it prove the loan was forged?”
“Potentially.”
“What about the accident?”
“It may establish intent to conceal evidence.”
She paused.
“But there's something else.”
“What?”
She pointed to one email.
“Martin wasn't just helping Douglas.”
I leaned closer.
“He was working with your father.”
I nodded.
“We knew that.”
“No.”
She pointed to the date.
“Look.”
The email was sent two months before I started the $550 transfers.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Your father planned this before you even knew he needed help.”
My stomach dropped.
The transfers weren't a desperate solution.
They had been part of a plan.
I had been manipulated from the beginning.
That night, Mom called.
I answered.
She was crying.
“Sarah, your father knows you have the emails.”
My heart raced.
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“Where are you?”
“I'm at home.”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Leave the house.”
There was a sound in the background.
A door closing.
Then Mom whispered:
“Martin is here.”
The line went dead.
I called back.
Nothing.
I called Dad.
Nothing.
Rebecca immediately contacted the police.
Then my phone rang again.
It was Mom.
I answered.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Sarah…”
Then I heard a man's voice behind her.
May you like
“Your family has already cost me enough.”
The call ended.
