Chapter 4 - The Midnight Audit
Later that night, long after Gwen had finally drifted off to an exhausted, fitful sleep in my arms, I gently laid her down on the cot and pulled the heavy blanket over her shoulders.
I slipped out of the cold storage room, locking the latch behind me with a silent click.
Upstairs, the house was dark and still. Margaret and Paige were sleeping soundly in their luxurious bedrooms, surrounded by plush carpets, expensive art, and designer wardrobes—all purchased with the money I had earned while dodging bullets halfway across the world. They believed the four hundred thousand dollars was arriving tomorrow. They believed I was still the obedient, naive soldier who trusted them blindly.
They were catastrophically wrong.
I didn't go to sleep. I walked into my mother’s private home office on the second floor, closed the door behind me, and turned on the desk lamp.
Before I had gone down to the storage room, I had already decided what I needed first.
Not revenge.
Records.
I sat down at my mother’s mahogany executive desk and booted up her desktop computer. It didn't take a genius to guess the password; Margaret used her own birthday combined with her dog’s name for everything.
The system unlocked with a soft chime.
I opened the financial folders, and there it was—the digital paper trail of absolute horror.
Over the last four years, every single wire transfer I sent from my military account hadn't gone into a joint savings account. Margaret had systematically forced Gwen to sign power-of-attorney documents under duress during my first year away, transferring our original home title into her own name, selling it at a massive profit, and buying this new suburban estate entirely under Margaret Vale’s sole proprietorship.
Furthermore, I found the medical records hidden in a local clinic’s digital portal linked to my mother’s email. Gwen’s biopsy results from three months ago. Stage 3 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. Recommended treatment: immediate chemotherapy and surgical intervention. Cost: forty-two thousand dollars.
And right beneath it was a denial letter from a financial assistance program, stamped CANCELED BY PRIMARY ACCOUNT HOLDER: MARGARET VALE.
My mother hadn't just neglected her. She had actively blocked Gwen’s life-saving treatment to save money for a new kitchen and a luxury handbag.
I plugged my secure military-issued encrypted flash drive into the USB port of the computer.
With a few precise keystrokes, I copied every single financial record, deed transfer, forged signature, bank statement, and medical sabotage email into my secure drive. I backed it all up to my encrypted cloud server, ensuring that even if they smashed the computer into dust, the evidence was permanently preserved across military-grade servers in Virginia and Germany.
Then, I opened a second document.
It was the draft of the property transfer agreement Margaret had printed out earlier that evening, ready for me to sign in the morning—transferring the house and all remaining assets directly into my name so I could supposedly secure the fake four-hundred-thousand-dollar military payout.
A grim, humorless smile touched the corners of my mouth.
My mother wanted to hand over ownership of the house to me to secure her greed?
Gladly.
May you like
I edited the digital document slightly, ensuring the electronic signature block was fully primed, and saved it back to her desktop.
Let the sun come up. Let tomorrow begin.
