Chapter 4 - Fifty-Three CallsThe morning after Naomi disappeared, panic spread through the house faster than anyone could contain it.
By 8:14 a.m., I had fifty-three missed calls.
By 8:21, there were sixty-two.
Mom called seventeen times.
Dad called nine.
Derek called eleven.
The rest came from numbers I recognized as relatives.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I went apartment hunting.
The place I found was tiny.
A bedroom.
A living room barely big enough for a couch.
A kitchen with two cabinets that didn't quite close.
But when the landlord handed me the keys, I felt strangely light.
No one could tell me I was taking up too much space.
No one could call me a parasite while eating at a table I had helped pay for.
I placed the keys in my palm.
Mine.
The word felt unfamiliar.
That afternoon, Sophie called.
“Your mother contacted me.”
I froze.
“She did what?”
“She found out I'm helping you review the documents.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much.”
Sophie paused.
“She wanted to know whether you were planning to claim ownership of the house.”
I almost laughed.
“I'm not.”
“I know.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were reviewing your financial records.”
“And?”
“She asked whether you had copies of the refinance documents.”
I went silent.
That told me everything.
Mom wasn't worried about where I was.
She was worried about what I had.
Sophie asked:
“Did you move your belongings?”
“Not yet.”
“Don't go alone.”
That evening, I returned to the house with her.
The driveway looked exactly the same.
The porch light was on.
But through the living room window, I saw boxes.
My boxes.
They had packed my things.
I opened the front door.
Mom appeared from the hallway.
She looked surprised.
“You came back.”
“I need my belongings.”
Dad stood behind her.
Derek was sitting on the couch.
His children were upstairs.
I looked at Derek.
He didn't meet my eyes.
Mom crossed her arms.
“There's no need to make this dramatic.”
“I'm not.”
“You've always been sensitive.”
I almost smiled.
“Where are my boxes?”
Dad pointed toward the garage.
“Most of it is there.”
I walked outside.
Some boxes had my clothes.
Some had books.
One contained framed photographs.
Then I noticed something.
A metal filing cabinet.
It was open.
I recognized the folders inside.
House documents.
Insurance.
Tax records.
Mortgage papers.
I reached toward the drawer.
Mom appeared behind me.
“Don't touch those.”
I turned.
“Why?”
“They're not yours.”
I looked at her.
“Neither was the word parasite, apparently.”
Her face tightened.
“Naomi.”
“It's fine.”
I reached into the drawer anyway.
Mom stepped forward.
“You don't have permission.”
Dad finally spoke.
“Naomi, just take your personal things and go.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Then I looked at the documents again.
One folder had a sticky note on it.
Derek.
Another had:
Naomi release.
I stared at it.
Mom saw where I was looking.
She moved immediately.
“That's private.”
I calmly closed the drawer.
“I didn't read it.”
That was a lie.
I had already photographed the labels.
As Sophie and I loaded my boxes, Derek came outside.
He leaned against the garage.
“You really don't have to act like this.”
I looked at him.
“Like what?”
“Like we're enemies.”
I smiled faintly.
“We aren't enemies.”
He frowned.
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Taking everything so seriously.”
I looked at the house.
“The moment Mom called me a parasite, something changed.”
Derek looked away.
“You know how Mom gets.”
“No.”
I met his eyes.
“I know exactly how Mom gets.”
He said nothing.
I finished loading the last box.
Then he called after me.
“Naomi.”
I turned.
“You're going to regret leaving.”
I held his gaze.
“Maybe.”
I got in my car.
As I drove away, my phone buzzed.
An email.
From an unknown address.
No subject.
One sentence.
You should check who really owns the company Derek was trying to save.
I pulled over.
I opened the message again.
There was an attachment.
Corporate registration records.
I downloaded them.
The company was not solely owned by Derek.
There were two other names.
One belonged to a man I had never heard of.
The other made my blood freeze.
My father's name.
Dad had told me he had nothing to do with Derek's business.
But according to the records, Dad wasn't just involved.
He was a director.
And the company had been receiving money from somewhere else.
Not the house.
A separate account.
I opened the transaction records attached to the email.
The payments were labeled with dates.
Several matched the same months when my parents had complained about “unexpected household expenses.”
Money had been moving in circles.
House.
Business.
Family account.
Back to the house.
I stared at the screen.
Maybe I hadn't been paying for a family that was struggling.
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Maybe I'd been unknowingly financing a financial scheme.
And whoever had sent me that email knew enough to prove it.
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