Chapter 3 - THE FORENSIC MIRROR
The hotel room in downtown Harrisburg was sterile, beige, and blissfully silent.
It was 11:30 on Saturday morning. The bright autumn sun cut through the sheer curtains, illuminating the steam rising from a cup of black coffee on the small laminate desk.
I sat propped up against three pillows on the king-sized bed, an ice pack pressed against the angry, purple swelling on the left side of my face. The eight black sutures above my hairline pulled tightly every time I blinked, a constant, stinging reminder that my old life was dead.
Beside me on the bed sat Maya Lin.
Maya had been my closest friend since our freshman year at Penn State. While I had gone into landscape architecture and urban design, Maya had clawed her way through Georgetown Law and now worked as a relentless, razor-sharp forensic asset attorney in Philadelphia. When I had called her from the hospital at three in the morning, she hadn't asked questions; she had thrown her laptop bag into her Audi and driven two hours through the dead of night to sit by my bed.
Now, she was surrounded by three years of my bank statements, tax returns, and property deeds spread across the white duvet.
"Drink your coffee, Paige," Maya commanded gently, without looking up from her spreadsheet. Her dark hair was tied in a messy topknot, and her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose. "You need the caffeine, and you need to keep your blood sugar up. The doctor said you have a grade-two concussion."
"I can't stomach anything, Maya," I whispered. My voice still sounded hollow to my own ears. "Did the bail hearing happen?"
Maya tapped a key on her laptop. "An hour ago. Judith used the deed to the Ridgewood house to post a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond for herself. Sloane’s bail was set at fifty thousand because of the physical weapon. An enabler aunt—your Aunt Clara from Lancaster—co-signed Sloane’s bond. They’re already out."
My chest tightened, a familiar spike of panic shooting down my arms. "They're out?"
"Breathe," Maya said, her voice dropping into a firm, grounding tone. She reached out and squeezed my knee. "They are out on strict pre-trial release conditions. Officer Miller got the emergency protection from abuse order signed by the presiding judge at dawn. If Judith or Sloane comes within five hundred feet of you, your workplace, or this hotel, their bail is automatically revoked, and they sit in Dauphin County Prison until trial. They cannot call you. They cannot text you. They cannot have third parties reach out to you."
"You don't know my mother," I said, a shiver running down my spine. "She thinks court orders are polite suggestions for commoners."
"Then she’s going to learn what a state penitentiary looks like from the inside," Maya replied coldly. Then, her expression shifted from protective friend to calculating attorney. She closed her laptop slightly and looked at me with deep, troubled eyes. "Paige... we need to talk about what I found in your financials this morning."
I swallowed hard. "How bad is it?"
"It’s not just bad. It’s criminal," Maya said, picking up a thick stack of printed PDFs. "Over the last three years, you believed you were transferring four thousand dollars a month to your mother’s account to cover the mortgage, the property taxes, and the home insurance on the Ridgewood house, right?"
"Yes. That was the agreement Dad put in place before he died. He said the house had an adjustable-rate mortgage that would balloon if we didn't pay it down."
"Your father lied to protect your feelings, or Judith lied to you after he died," Maya said bluntly. "I pulled the Dauphin County recorder of deeds records forty minutes ago. Paige... the Ridgewood house was paid off in full in 2018. Marcus Merritt cleared the mortgage with his life insurance policy two weeks before he passed away."
The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp. The room seemed to tilt again, just like it had when that wineglass struck my head.
"What?" I choked out. "Paid off? But... I’ve paid nearly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars into that account over the last three years!"
"You didn't pay a mortgage, Paige," Maya said, sliding a document into my lap. "You funded an account titled *Merritt Lifestyle Enterprises LLC*. An entity registered solely to your mother and your sister. Your monthly transfers weren't going to a bank. They were paying for Sloane’s seasonal wardrobe updates, Judith’s private club dues at the West Shore Country Club, and regular weekend trips to luxury spas in the Poconos."
I looked down at the paper. Black-and-white bank transaction logs.
*Nordstrom: $1,420.*
*Saks Fifth Avenue: $890.*
*Le Mirage Aesthetic Clinic: $2,200.*
*Four Seasons Spa: $1,150.*
Every single dollar had been bled from my sixty-hour workweeks. Every late night spent hunched over blueprints, every missed vacation, every cheap meal of ramen and frozen vegetables I had eaten while they dined on duck breast and imported wine in the dining room.
"There's more," Maya continued, her voice hardening. "I ran a deep credit check on your Social Security number with the bureau's fraud division."
I felt ice spread through my veins. "What did they do, Maya?"
"Sloane took out three separate high-interest signature loans using your name and your credit score over the past eighteen months. Total balance: seventy-four thousand dollars. She forged your signature on digital applications, using your paystubs from the architectural firm that she must have stolen from your desk in the house."
I covered my face with my trembling hands. A dry, shuddering sob tore from my throat. "I have seventy-four thousand dollars in debt? I can't pay that. Maya, my Philadelphia lease... my security deposit took everything I had left. I start my new job in two weeks. If my credit is destroyed, the firm might revoke the offer! The state ethics board runs financial checks on licensed urban planners!"
"Listen to me," Maya said fiercely, moving onto the edge of the bed and grabbing both of my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face so I had to look at her. "You are not paying a single red cent of that debt. That is identity theft and grand larceny. We are filing a comprehensive fraud affidavit with the Harrisburg Police Department and the state attorney general's office on Monday morning. Sloane didn't just commit battery; she committed bank fraud. That carries a federal sentence."
Before I could answer, Maya’s iPad on the desk began chiming frantically.
A notification banner popped up from Facebook, followed by an Instagram alert, then three emails in rapid succession.
Maya frowned, reached over, and pulled the tablet into her lap. Her brow furrowed as her eyes scanned the screen. Her jaw clenched so hard I could hear her teeth grind.
"The arrogant, narcissistic bitch," Maya hissed.
"What is it?" I asked, my stomach plummeting. "What did they do?"
Maya turned the tablet toward me.
It was a public post on Judith Merritt’s Facebook page—a profile followed by hundreds of local community leaders, historical society members, and family friends.
The post featured an old photograph of me from college, looking sullen and exhausted during finals week, paired with a long, agonizingly dramatic statement:
> *To our dear friends and church community:*
>
> *It is with a broken, bleeding heart that I ask for your prayers during the darkest trial our family has ever faced. Last night, our youngest daughter, Paige, succumbed to a severe, long-hidden psychological breakdown. In an unprovoked fit of violent rage, she attacked her sister Sloane and destroyed our home before running into the night.*
>
> *To protect herself from the consequences of her own mental collapse, Paige has made monstrous, fabricated accusations to the police, resulting in a horrifying misunderstanding that briefly targeted Sloane and myself. We are safe, though Sloane is severely traumatized by the physical violence inflicted by her own flesh and blood.*
>
> *We ask for privacy as we seek psychiatric intervention for Paige. Please pray for her tortured soul. A daughter who can strike her own family is a daughter who has lost her way entirely.*
>
> *With sorrow and grace,*
> *Judith Merritt.*
Beneant the post, the comments were already pouring in like toxic sludge.
*“Judith, I am horrified! Paige always seemed so quiet, but you never know what darkness lurks inside someone.”*
*“Praying for you and sweet Sloane! Sloane is an angel, she didn't deserve this!”*
*“Have you notified her employers? A violent person like that shouldn't be working around the public!”*
*“Unbelievable. After everything Judith has sacrificed for those girls since Marcus died. Lock her away!”*
I stared at the screen, my ears ringing louder than the night the crystal struck my skull.
They weren't just trying to trap me in that house.
May you like
They were going to destroy my sanity, my career, and my entire existence to save their own vanity.
***
