Chapter 4 - THE MAN AT THE AIRPORTBy eight that evening, there was no wedding.
No first dance.
No champagne toast.
No cake cutting.
Instead, I was sitting beneath fluorescent lights in a police interview room wearing the same black catering uniform I had put on at four that morning.
Across from me, Detective Patel opened a file.
“Daniel Cross agreed to speak.”
That surprised me.
“Already?”
“He thinks Brielle set him up.”
I almost laughed.
Of course he did.
“What did he say?”
“He claims your sister planned the financial transfers.”
“Did she?”
“He says she did.”
“And she says?”
“That he did.”
“So they're blaming each other.”
“Essentially.”
Detective Patel slid a printed message across the table.
It was a text exchange.
BRIELLE: Lena still keeps recovery codes in her office.
DANIEL: Can your mom get them?
BRIELLE: Already did.
My hands tightened.
Next message.
DANIEL: Once the last payment clears, we leave.
BRIELLE: Not until after the wedding.
DANIEL: Why are you still marrying him?
There was a long reply.
BRIELLE: Because walking away now looks suspicious. After the honeymoon I'll say it wasn't working. Everyone sides with the bride.**
I stopped reading.
Even Detective Patel looked uncomfortable.
“She planned to marry Carter knowing she was leaving him?”
“That appears to be what Mr. Cross believed.”
“But why steal from my company?”
“Money.”
“That’s not enough.”
She studied me.
“You're right.”
She placed another document on the table.
It was an application for a business line of credit.
Mercer Table Catering LLC.
Requested amount:
$150,000.
My name appeared as guarantor.
Again, the signature wasn't mine.
My heart began pounding.
“Was this approved?”
“No. The lender flagged inconsistencies and requested additional verification.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
If the lender hadn't caught it, I might have woken up after the wedding owing $150,000.
I looked at the forged application.
“Daniel couldn't do this alone.”
“We don't believe he did.”
“Brielle?”
“Yes.”
I thought about the years I had defended her.
Loaned her money.
Paid her rent twice.
Helped her move.
Let her borrow my car.
Gave her a job for six weeks when her boutique collapsed.
Every time she messed up, I told myself she was impulsive, not cruel.
I had been wrong.
Impulsive people make bad decisions.
This required preparation.
Detective Patel continued.
“Mr. Cross also had copies of your driver’s license and Social Security card stored on an encrypted drive.”
My skin crawled.
“How?”
“We’re investigating.”
I already knew the likely answer.
Mom.
She had kept copies of our important documents in a family fireproof box for years.
I left the station shortly before ten.
Carter was sitting outside.
“Still here?”
He shrugged.
“My father is talking to an attorney.”
“Where's Brielle?”
“With another detective.”
“Your almost-wife?”
The bitterness in my voice came out sharper than intended.
He didn't react.
“Definitely almost.”
I sat two chairs away.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I keep thinking about breakfast.”
“What happened at breakfast?”
“She kissed me goodbye.”
I looked over.
“She told me she couldn't wait to be my wife.”
His voice broke slightly.
“And apparently she had a suitcase packed to leave with another man.”
There was nothing useful to say.
So I didn't insult him with clichés.
Eventually, Carter asked, “Did you know she hated you?”
I frowned.
“She doesn't hate me.”
He looked toward the interview-room door.
“Lena.”
I understood his point.
But hatred didn't fully explain Brielle.
“I think she hates being compared to me.”
“Were you compared?”
“All the time.”
“By whom?”
“Our mother.”
He was surprised.
I explained.
Growing up, Brielle was beautiful, popular, and reckless.
I was quiet, practical, and good at school.
Mom praised me by using me as a weapon against Brielle.
“Why can't you be responsible like Lena?”
“Lena never needs this much help.”
“Your sister already has a career.”
I hated it.
I told Mom repeatedly to stop.
But Brielle didn't blame Mom.
She blamed me.
Every accomplishment I had became proof that she was failing.
When I opened my catering company, Brielle told everyone I thought I was better than her.
When I bought my first home, she didn't speak to me for three weeks.
When Carter proposed, I thought something had changed.
For once, she had something she truly wanted.
Apparently it still wasn't enough.
Carter rubbed his face.
“I paid off twelve thousand dollars of her credit-card debt last year.”
I looked at him.
“She told me Dad did.”
“No.”
There it was again.
A lie placed carefully between two people so neither would compare notes.
“How much have you given her?”
“I don't know.”
“Estimate.”
“Maybe eighty thousand over three years.”
I stared.
He laughed without humor.
“Yeah.”
“Did she work?”
“She said she was planning an event-design business.”
“She told me you wouldn't let her work because your family wanted her focused on becoming a wife.”
Carter looked stunned.
We both began comparing stories.
The lies were endless.
To me, Carter was controlling.
To Carter, I was jealous.
To Mom, Carter's parents were snobs.
To Harrison, Mom was demanding money.
Brielle had spent years keeping everyone slightly angry at everyone else.
Because people who don't trust one another don't compare facts.
At eleven fifteen, Detective Patel emerged.
She looked exhausted.
“She admitted the forged catering agreement.”
My stomach tightened.
“And the bank transfers?”
“She admits accessing information from your mother's copies but says Daniel executed the transfers.”
“That's nonsense.”
“Possibly.”
“Is she being arrested?”
“Decisions are being made with the prosecutor.”
Carter stood.
“What about the false 911 report?”
“The responding officers documented it.”
The interview-room door opened.
Mom came out first.
Brielle followed.
Her makeup had been washed off. She was wearing sweatpants someone had brought from home.
For the first time that day, she looked like my little sister again.
Not the bride.
Not the manipulator.
Just Brielle.
She saw Carter.
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Then she looked at me.
“Lena.”
I didn't respond.
Her eyes filled.
“I didn't mean for it to go this far.”
I almost couldn't believe the sentence.
“You forged a $150,000 loan.”
“I wasn't going to submit it.”
“It was submitted.”
“Daniel did that.”
“You gave him my information.”
“He said we needed a safety net.”
“We?”
She realized her mistake.
Carter turned away.
“God.”
Brielle began crying.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Everything!”
She stepped toward me.
“Do you know what it feels like being your sister?”
There it was.
Finally.
Not remorse.
Resentment.
“You walk into a room and everyone trusts you. Mom asks your opinion. Dad used to ask your opinion. You built a company. You own a house. Everybody says Lena is responsible, Lena is smart, Lena can handle anything.”
I stared at her.
“So you robbed me?”
“You don't understand!”
“No. I really don't.”
“You always land on your feet.”
The sentence hit me harder than I expected.
“You thought that gave you permission?”
“I thought you'd recover!”
“And my employees?”
She looked away.
“Would they recover too?”
Silence.
I continued.
“Rosa has three kids. Miguel is paying his mother's medical bills. Abby is saving for community college. That money wasn't just mine.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“No. You're sorry there are police here.”
She flinched.
Mom whispered, “Enough.”
I turned on her.
“No, Mom. Not enough.”
She lowered her eyes.
“You copied my financial information for her.”
“I thought she needed it to pay vendors.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She said you were overwhelmed and told her to handle it.”
“And you believed her?”
Mom started crying.
“I wanted the wedding to be perfect.”
Of course.
The wedding.
Always Brielle's wedding.
I suddenly started laughing.
It wasn't funny.
It was just so predictable.
“You were willing to risk my entire company so her wedding would be perfect.”
“I didn't know she was stealing.”
“You didn't ask me.”
Mom reached for me.
I stepped back.
The door behind us opened again.
Officer Reyes entered carrying a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a white envelope.
He handed it to Detective Patel.
She looked at the label.
Then at Brielle.
“What is that?” I asked.
Patel opened the bag and removed the envelope.
Across the front, someone had written:
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME — LENA.
The handwriting belonged to my father.
My father had been dead for five years.
Mom went completely pale.
I looked at her.
“Why does the police have something Dad wrote to me?”
No one answered.
“Mom?”
She shook her head.
“You weren't supposed to see that.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
Detective Patel looked from her to me.
“This was found inside a locked document box in Ms. Brielle Mercer's apartment.”
My sister stared at the floor.
I walked toward her.
“Why do you have something Dad left for me?”
She said nothing.
“BRIELLE.”
Finally, she whispered:
“Because Mom gave it to me.”
I turned.
May you like
Mom looked like she wanted the floor to open beneath her.
And suddenly the stolen wedding money was no longer the biggest secret my family had kept from me.
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