Aunt June didn't look away.

That mattered.

Celia always left me with a question and made me chase the answer.

June sat down and said, “Your mother loaned me money.”

Dad lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

I stayed standing.

“How much?”

“Twelve thousand dollars.”

The number hit harder than I expected.

I had spent three years searching clearance shelves while adults around me knew about money I had never seen.

June nodded, as if she understood what my face was saying.

“My shop flooded. Insurance was delayed. Ruth helped me keep the doors open.”

“Did you pay her back?”

“Yes.”

She opened her purse and took out her phone.

“After she died, I paid the balance to the estate. I can get the bank records.”

Dad leaned forward.

“Celia knew?”

“She saw the original note when she helped sort paperwork.”

I looked at June.

“Why didn't I know?”

“You were grieving. Then you were finishing school. I thought it was settled.”

Her eyes filled.

“That wasn't a good enough reason to leave you out.”

I sat down.

June didn't tell me I should trust her because she was family.

She sent Tessa the dates and offered to bring the records in person.

It was such a different response that I felt dizzy.

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“She wanted us arguing about Ruth.”

“She wanted Naomi uncertain,” June said.

I heard my own name and realized I had been sitting quietly again, waiting for the adults to decide what things meant.

“I want to see the records, too.”

June nodded immediately.

“Of course.”

That evening, I called my manager.

I had missed two days of work.

Andre listened while I explained that there was a family emergency.

“You don't have to give me all the details,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

I nearly laughed.

Everybody kept asking that question now.

I didn't know how to answer it.

“One more day.”

“You’ve got it.”

Before hanging up, he asked whether I was safe.

I looked at Dad in the kitchen, opening cupboards because he didn't know where anything was anymore.

“Yes,” I said.

Then, after a moment, “I think so.”

Andre didn't rush me.

“Call if that changes.”

The next morning, Tessa called.

Martin had sent her the email Celia used to arrange the proposed sale.

There were photographs of the house, an estimated price, and copies of documents Celia said showed authority to proceed.

One was a letter with Dad’s name at the bottom.

Dad hadn't written it.

Another was my supposed agreement to leave.

Tessa said no sale had been completed and no legitimate transfer could proceed on those materials alone.

Still, Celia had accepted money.

A reservation deposit.

Fifteen thousand dollars.

Dad shut his eyes.

“From Martin?”

“From a client he represented.”

“Where did it go?”

“We’re requesting confirmation.”

I stared at the kitchen table.

“She was going to sell the house?”

“She was presenting it as available,” Tessa said. “That doesn't mean she had the power to sell it.”

But she had the power to make me pack.

She had almost gotten me out before anyone asked the right question.

Tessa told us the estate account records had also arrived.

The eighteen thousand dollars had gone into an account associated with Celia.

My signed acknowledgment had been used to close the distribution file.

Dad covered his face.

I felt something inside me turn cold and clear.

“What do I do?”

Tessa said we could report the suspected fraud and provide the records.

She explained what she knew, what still needed verification, and which documents mattered.

I listened.

I asked questions.

I wrote down the answers.

When the call ended, Dad reached toward me.

“Sweetheart—”

“I want to report it.”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

“I want the rent counted, too.”

“Yes.”

“And the washer money.”

His eyes filled.

“Everything.”

We went to make the report that afternoon.

I expected to be doubted.

I expected somebody to look at my age and ask why I had stayed.

The investigator, Ms. Alvarez, asked careful questions instead.

She wanted dates.

Accounts.

Messages.

Names.

When she asked why I had signed, I told her exactly what Celia said.

I didn't soften it to make myself look smarter.

I didn't leave out the part where I believed Dad didn't want me.

Dad sat beside me, silent.

That was harder for him than speaking.

I could tell.

On the way out, I found a voicemail from Celia.

Her voice was smooth.

“Naomi, your father is making a terrible mistake. I can explain the account, but you need to stop this before people get hurt.”

I played it for Ms. Alvarez before we left.

She asked me to preserve it.

Then she gave me a reference number.

A number.

A record.

Something that existed outside Celia’s version of events.

At home, I went upstairs and unpacked the first box.

Books.

A scarf.

A photograph of Mom and me at my high school graduation.

Dad stood in the doorway.

“Can I help?”

I handed him the photograph.

He put it on my desk.

Then my phone lit up again.

This time, it wasn't Celia.

It was my cousin Brianna.

Why are you trying to destroy your dad's marriage?

I stared at the message.

Celia had found another way into the house.