Chapter 4 - The Tables Turn
By Friday evening, the frantic text messages began flooding my phone. The arrogant, dismissive family who had laughed in my face just days earlier had completely disintegrated under the weight of Sam’s theatrical audit.
Mom: Iris, please pick up your phone. There’s some terrible man here from the government saying we’re going to jail. Please call us back.
Dad: Iris, stop playing games. Whatever point you're trying to prove, it's gone too far. Call me immediately.
Darcy: IRIS! Some people from the city came to my house and put caution tape everywhere and said my bank accounts are frozen. The kids are crying. Please tell me this is a sick joke!
I sat at my kitchen table, sipping a cup of chamomile tea, watching the notifications light up my screen one after another. I didn't answer a single text. Instead, I forwarded every screenshot directly to Sam, who was currently sitting in a downtown diner removing his theatrical makeup.
Sam: Act Two was a massive success. Barnaby deserves an award. Should we roll out the grand finale tomorrow morning?
Me: Let's do it. Bring down the curtain.
Saturday morning brought the final, crushing blow.
At 9:00 AM sharp, my phone rang. It wasn't a text message this time; it was a direct call from my mother, her voice cracking with ragged, hysterical sobs. I let it ring twice before tapping accept and pressing the phone quietly to my ear.
"Iris!" she wailed before I could even say hello. "Thank God you answered! We are ruined! Your father hasn't slept in two days, Darcy is having a panic attack, and the bank called us saying all our joint lines of credit have been frozen because of the federal investigation!"
I kept my voice completely level, cold, and devoid of any emotion. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
"The investigator! The man with the briefcase! He said we committed forgery and grand larceny! He said we're facing federal prison time unless we return the thirty-four thousand dollars immediately!" She paused, gasping for breath. "Iris, please... you're my daughter. Tell them it was just a misunderstanding! Tell them we'll give the money back!"
"Give the money back?" I asked, letting out a cold, humorless laugh. "Mom, it was my money. You didn't 'give' it back; you stole it."
"We didn't mean to steal it! Darcy just needed help!" she sobbed pathetically. "Please, just tell us what we need to do to make this investigator go away. Please!"
I let the silence stretch out for five agonizing seconds.
"If you want this to stop," I said slowly, "you and Darcy are going to meet me at my office conference room in one hour. You are going to bring a cashier’s check for the full thirty-four thousand dollars, drawn from your own personal funds—not touching a single dime of my bonus principal. And you are going to bring a signed, notarized confession admitting to the fraudulent endorsement."
"A notarized confession?!" Mom gasped in horror. "Iris, we could go to jail!"
"That," I replied icily, "is between you, your conscience, and the federal investigator. See you at ten o'clock."
I hung up the phone before she could say another word.
When I walked into my office conference room an hour later, Sam was already waiting for me, sitting at the head of the long glass table wearing a sharp blazer, casually reviewing a legal pad like a high-powered corporate litigator. In the corner, Barnaby—still wearing his aviator sunglasses—stood silently like a statue of impending doom.
Ten minutes later, the double doors flew open.
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My parents and Darcy stumbled into the room looking like refugees from a war zone. Mom’s hair was unbrushed, Dad looked ten years older, and Darcy was clutching a white envelope with shaking, clammy hands, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw us.
