Chapter 6 - The Trap is Set
I was sitting innocently on the sofa in the den, scrolling through architectural design portfolios on my tablet, when Lydia appeared in the doorway.
She looked entirely too cheerful. Her cheeks were flushed from the crisp morning air, and she had changed out of her silk robe into a fitted burgundy sweater dress that cost more than my first two months of rent in Boston.
“Cassie,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. “Good morning. Or, well, almost afternoon.”
“Morning, Lydia,” I said without looking up from my screen.
She stepped into the den, resting her hand lightly on the doorframe. “Mom and I were talking while we unloaded the groceries. We realize things have been... tense since you arrived.”
I raised my eyes, meeting her gaze. “Tense is one word for it.”
“Right. And since Dad really does need peace and quiet—his blood pressure spiked again this morning, according to the home monitor—we think it would be best if you cut your trip short.”
There it was. The eviction notice, delivered with a smile and a side of gaslighting.
“I’m not leaving, Lydia,” I said evenly. “Dad asked me to stay.”
“Dad isn’t competent to make those decisions anymore,” she said, her voice dropping the pretense of sweetness, hardening into something sharp and final. “And as his primary caregiver holding his medical power of attorney, I’m telling you that your presence is medically contraindicated.”
I locked my tablet screen and set it down on the coffee table. I stood up, smoothing down the front of my jeans, and walked right up to her until we were standing less than two feet apart.
“You don’t have medical power of attorney, Lydia.”
Her eyes flickered—just a micro-movement, a momentary contraction of her pupils. “Excuse me?”
“I was just looking through Dad’s filing cabinet in the office,” I said, watching her face closely. “Funny thing. I found the financial records. And the POA forms. You know, forgeries are a federal offense if interstate wire transfers are involved. Moving money from Milbrook National to an LLC registered out of state crosses state lines, doesn't it?”
The color drained from Lydia’s face so fast it looked like someone had pulled a plug in her veins. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The sophisticated, untouchable facade cracked right down the middle, revealing the panicked, cornered thief underneath.
“You... you went through his private files?” she choked out, her voice pitching an octave higher.
“I went looking for the truth,” I said quietly. “And I found it. All of it. The bank statements, the forged signatures, the LLC paperwork. Oh, and by the way? I also have a recording of you admitting to stealing my EpiPen last night, not to mention your little confession about the bake sale when we were nine.”
Lydia lunged forward, her hands clawing out like a cat’s paws. “Give me the files! Where are they? Did you take them?”
I didn't flinch. I caught her wrists mid-air in a firm, unbreakable grip, holding her hands away from my body. She was surprisingly strong, fueled by adrenaline and sheer panic, but I had spent twelve years managing volatile construction crews and demanding corporate developers. I knew how to hold my ground.
“I didn't take the originals, Lydia,” I lied smoothly. “I took pictures. And they’re already backed up to a server in Boston. If anything happens to me—if I get a stomach ache, if I trip down the stairs, if my ‘allergy acts up’—that folder goes straight to the District Attorney before the ambulance even leaves the driveway.”
She struggled against my grip, her face contorting into an ugly, snarling mask. “You bitch! You ruin everything! You’ve always ruined everything! You think you’re so smart with your fancy Boston life and your little design firm—!”
“Let go of her!”
The voice cracked through the hallway like a pistol shot.
We both froze.
Standing in the doorway of the den, leaning heavily against a wooden cane, was Dad.
He looked terrible. His flannel shirt hung off his emaciated shoulders like a sack, and his breathing came in harsh, wet gasps. But his eyes—those sharp, hazel eyes—were wide, blazing with a fury I hadn't seen in him since we were children.
Lydia stopped struggling instantly. Her face crumpled into an instantaneous, Oscar-worthy performance of wounded innocence.
“Dad!” she whimpered, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes with terrifying speed. “Dad, thank god. Cassandra broke into your office, she’s screaming at me, she’s threatening me—she’s completely unstable!”
Dad didn't look at her.
He looked at me, his grip on his cane white-knuckled and trembling. Then he looked at Lydia, his jaw working as if he were chewing on broken glass.
“Get out,” Dad rasped.
Lydia blinked, wiping a theatrical tear from her cheek. “What? Dad, she’s lying—”
“I said get out,” Dad roared, the sound tearing out of his chest with a raw, terrifying power that made us both jump. He pointed his shaking cane toward the front door. “I heard every word. Both of you. I’ve heard you for months, Lydia, whispering in the hall, stealing my name, treating me like a dead man before I’ve even stopped breathing. Get out of my house.”
Lydia stared at him, her mouth hanging open. For a second, she looked like she might argue, might push back, might try one more manipulation. But then she looked at my face—calm, cold, holding her complete destruction in the palm of my hand—and she realized the game was over.
She snatched her designer handbag off the hallway console table, shoved her feet into her Tory Burch flats, and stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard the windows in the den rattled in their frames.
May you like
The heavy oak door clicked shut. Milbrook silence rushed back in.
Dad swayed on his feet, his breath catching. I lunged forward, catching him under the arm just as his knees buckled, guiding him down gently until he was seated safely on the edge of the old floral pull-out couch.
