Chapter 1: The Cancelled Appointment
The first sign that something was wrong came in an email I wasn't supposed to see.
*EYE EXAM CANCELED — PAYMENT NOT RECEIVED.*
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
My name was Emma Carter, I was sixteen, and that appointment wasn't optional. My vision had been getting worse for months. I was supposed to see a specialist the following Tuesday because my optometrist suspected I needed a more serious treatment.
And my dad had spent years putting money aside for it.
At least, that's what I thought.
"Mom?"" I called from the kitchen.
No answer.
I walked into the living room and found my stepmother, Laura, sitting on the couch with her phone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
"Why was my eye appointment canceled?""
Laura didn't look up.
"What appointment?""
"The one next Tuesday. The specialist.""
She finally raised her eyes.
"Oh. That.""
My stomach tightened.
"What does 'that' mean?""
Laura sighed like I'd interrupted something important.
"It was too expensive, Emma. Your father and I decided we'd deal with it later.""
"Later?""
"Yes.""
"But Dad said the money was already there.""
She stared at me for half a second too long.
Then she smiled.
"Your father says a lot of things.""
I felt heat crawl up my neck.
"The money is from my savings.""
Laura put her glass down.
"You're sixteen. You don't need to worry about finances.""
"That money was given to me by Grandma. Dad put it in a separate account.""
"And?""
"And I want to know where it went.""
Her expression changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
"Emma," she said quietly, "don't make this into something it isn't.""
I grabbed my phone.
"I'm calling Dad.""
Laura stood so quickly the couch cushion bounced.
"No.""
The word came out sharper than I expected.
I froze.
"Why not?""
"He's working.""
"I don't care.""
"Emma, your father is under enough pressure.""
I stared at her.
For the first time, I noticed something strange on the coffee table.
A glossy black key fob.
Beside it was a dealership brochure.
I picked it up.
A photograph of a bright red sports car filled the page.
My eyes dropped to the price.
*$42,700.*
My heart began pounding.
"Whose car is this?""
Laura snatched the brochure from my hand.
"It's nothing.""
"That's not nothing.""
"It's my son's.""
Her son, Tyler, was nineteen.
He had been talking about getting a sports car for months.
I swallowed.
"Did Dad buy it for him?""
Laura didn't answer.
"Laura?""
She turned away.
And that was when I noticed the dealership receipt sticking out from underneath her purse.
May you like
The name printed across the top wasn't Tyler's.
It was mine.
