A sharp intake of air hissed through the phone. “You reported your own father for wire fraud and identity theft?”
“No, Robert,” I said, standing up and walking toward the window, watching the waves crash against the concrete shoreline of the lake. “I reported a criminal who stole my identity. The fact that he happens to share my DNA is irrelevant. For seven years, they convinced me that Madison was a fragile little porcelain doll who needed protection. But Madison isn’t porcelain. She’s ivy. She wraps herself around the house, chokes out every living thing, and uses my father’s cowardice and my mother’s narcissism as fertilizer.”
“Claire… this will ruin them. If the bank opens a fraud investigation, David could lose his pension rights entirely. They could lose the house.”
“They lost the house the day they mortgaged it to buy Madison an audience,” I said coldly. “Tell Eleanor that if she texts me again, I’m forwarding the bank statements to her church committee. Let’s see how much sympathy she gets at the Sunday luncheon when they find out her lifestyle was funded by forged signatures on her daughter’s credit.”
I hung up before Robert could respond.
I looked at my hands. They were steady. Not a single tremble.
For the first time in twenty-five years, I wasn’t the daughter holding up the roof. I was the demolition expert watching the structural flaws do the work for me.
***
