Chapter 4 - The Audit
The morning after the party, my phone rang at six in the morning. It was Aunt Patty.
“Gina,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I just checked the GoFundMe page. They took it down, but I called my bank to reverse the $500 I donated last year. The bank told me the state attorney general’s office has already frozen the campaign account.”
“Nolan filed the report yesterday, Aunt Patty,” I said, sitting up in bed and touching the bandage on my scraped wrist.
“Your mother called me at midnight,” Patty continued, her tone bitter. “She asked me not to talk to the police. She asked me to tell people it was a 'misunderstanding about experimental treatments.' Can you believe that? After everything Tessa did, your mother is still trying to sweep it under the rug!”
“That’s what Mom does,” I replied quietly.
Two hours later, Nolan and I drove to my parents' house to collect the rest of my father’s financial records. When we pulled up, Dad was sitting on the porch steps in the cold morning air, wearing his old work jacket, staring at the shattered brass pieces of the bell.
He looked ten years older.
“Dad?” I called out gently as we walked up the steps.
He looked up at me, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. He reached out and took my hand—the wrist wrapped in white gauze—and brought it to his lips.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he sobbed, his shoulders shaking. “I’m so sorry I told you to apologize to her. I’m so sorry I let her treat you like dirt your whole life.”
I sat down beside him on the cold wooden steps and rested my head against his shoulder. “You didn't know, Dad.”
“I should have known!” he cried out, hitting his thigh with his fist. “I was so blind! Every time she cried, I gave her whatever she wanted. I took your college money. I was going to sell our F-150... the truck we built together!”
“We still have the truck, Dad,” I reminded him softly.
Mom stepped out onto the porch, carrying a tray of untouched coffee mugs. She looked at Nolan and me with defensive, bloodshot eyes.
“The lawyer says if we repay the GoFundMe donors ourselves, the state might not file felony charges against Tessa,” Mom said, her voice flat and determined. “Vern, we have to take out a second mortgage on the house.”
Dad stood up slowly, turning to face his wife.
“No,” Dad said firmly.
Mom blinked, stunned. “Vern, she’s facing five years in prison!”
“Then she will serve five years in prison,” Dad said, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “I am not spending another nickel of my retirement, and I am not putting a second mortgage on this home to cover up her crimes.”
“She’s your daughter!” Mom screamed.
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“And Gina is my daughter too!” Dad roared back, his voice echoing across the yard. “The daughter who gave up her own baby’s future so I wouldn't have to sell my truck! The daughter who sat in a parking garage while your favorite child was buying clothes in Nashville! We are done enabling her, Shirley. You hear me? We are done.”
Mom dropped the tray. The ceramic mugs shattered on the porch floor, spilling hot coffee over the wood. She stared at my father as if he were a complete stranger, realizing that the house of cards she had built for thirty-two years had finally collapsed completely.
