Chapter 7 - The Itemized Indictment
The word *fraud* hung between us like a guillotine blade.
"You wouldn't," Beatrice whispered, clutching Trevor’s arm. "They would put him in jail, Jewel. He has three children! What kind of monster are you?"
"The kind of monster who sat in your living room on Christmas morning and watched my seven-year-old daughter hug an empty box because you told her she was 'resilient,'" I replied, my voice dropping to a lethal quiet. "You stole from my children to indulge his. And now you’re standing on my porch asking me to sacrifice my family's financial security so Trevor can continue playing make-believe millionaire."
Trevor looked at his shoes. His arrogant swagger was entirely gone, replaced by the cornered, shifty posture of a schoolyard bully caught red-handed.
"What do you want?" Trevor muttered, his voice barely audible over the winter breeze rustling through the bare maples.
"Inside the house, on my desk, is an agreement," I said. "Oliver had his brother—who, as you might recall, is an actual corporate contract attorney, not a LinkedIn visionary—draft a binding promissory note this morning."
Trevor flinched.
"The terms are non-negotiable," I continued. "You will return every single unopened luxury item to the stores by tomorrow afternoon. The refunds must be processed directly back to my card line—which I will temporarily set to 'Refund Only' mode through customer service. Every cent recouped lowers your balance."
"A lot of those gifts were already opened yesterday," Trevor stammered. "The kids unwrapped the consoles. The clothes had their tags cut off."
"Then you sell your car," I stated simply.
"What?!" he yelled. "I need that car!"
"You have a 2023 Audi that costs you nine hundred dollars a month in lease and insurance. Turn it in, break the lease, buy a four-thousand-dollar sedan, and apply the difference. Whatever remaining balance exists after returns and sales will be paid to me in installments of one thousand dollars on the first of every month, beginning February 1st, at six percent interest."
May you like
"Six percent?!" Mom gasped. "To your own brother?!"
"The credit card company charges twenty-four percent," I pointed out. "I'm being remarkably generous. If Trevor misses a single payment by more than forty-eight hours, the full confession of unauthorized credit use attached to the note will be submitted to the district attorney’s office along with the store surveillance footage."
