I rearranged my apartment furniture. I replaced the threadbare rug Cass once mocked. I took myself out to dinner without telling anyone. I stopped answering calls from relatives who only wanted me to be the family’s secret keeper.
Raymond called one afternoon with an update. “The notary’s office cooperated,” he said. “The ID used at closing doesn’t match you. Surveillance footage shows your sister signing documents. We’re pushing the lender hard now.”
My body sagged with relief. Proof. Concrete, undeniable proof.
Still, the court date approached like a slow drumbeat.
Cass’s lawyer offered a plea: restitution, probation, maybe reduced charges if I “cooperated.”
Raymond explained what that meant in legal terms.
In human terms, it meant Cass wanted a softer landing.
My phone buzzed one evening with a message from my mother.
Please. She’s falling apart. Come to dinner Sunday. Let’s talk like we used to.
Attached was a photo.
Cass and me at ten years old. Matching dresses, four smiles, a world where our biggest crime was stealing extra cookies from the pantry.