Trevor leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a grin that turned my stomach.
And before a single box touched the ground, I knew—
this had never been a misunderstanding.
“Did not take much to expose you,” he said. “Mom finally understands who you really are.”
I refused to take the bait. I walked past him and climbed the stairs. I reached the guest room, but the door that had always been unlocked was now shut. When I turned the handle, the odor hit me first. Stale beer. Cigarette smoke. The unmistakable scent of cheap whiskey.
Inside, the room did not resemble the space where I had once kept extra clothes and family photo albums. A stained mattress lay crooked on the floor. Empty liquor bottles littered the nightstand. The curtains were drawn tight. The closet gaped open like a mouth full of secrets.
On the dresser sat a stack of envelopes. My name was not on a single one.
Every envelope was addressed to Trevor Foster. Loan statements. Credit card bills. Payday lender letters. Overdue notices. Evidence of a financial disaster.
I reached for the top page. My hands trembled as I recognized the payment amounts. One thousand five hundred dollars. Every month. Identical to the transfers I had sent.
The receiving account was not my mother’s. It was Trevor’s.
I flipped through page after page, my vision blurring. Payments to a casino. Payments to a bar. Cash withdrawals at two in the morning for suspiciously large amounts.
