Chapter 2 - The Digital Trail
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the television seemed to quiet down, the fake log fire looping its embers in an endless, mechanical circle.
"Mark, can we please talk about this in private?" Brooke said, clutching a wad of green wrapping paper against her stomach like a shield. Her knuckles were white. "This is inappropriate for Christmas morning. It’s a misunderstanding."
"A four-hundred-dollar misunderstanding?" Grandma June asked. She didn't stand up. She didn't need to. Her gaze was locked on Brooke with the precision of a hawk. "I want to know which account that check went into, Brooke. Because my bank statement says it was deposited via mobile app into your joint checking on December thirteenth."
Dad stood completely upright now. He looked down at the carpet, where Wyatt’s new console box rested, its glossy cardboard reflecting the multicolored tree lights. Then he looked at the coffee table, where my $7.99 socks lay neatly boxed.
"Brooke," Dad repeated, his tone stripped of its usual easygoing warmth. "Go to the kitchen. Now."
"Mark, you are overreacting—"
"I said go to the kitchen."
Brooke dropped the wrapping paper. Her mouth twitched, an ugly, bitter angle forming at the corner of her lips. She spun on her heel and stroed down the hardwood hall, her slippers scuffing hard against the floorboards. Dad followed her, his broad shoulders unusually rigid.
Wyatt stayed frozen on the rug. His hands hovered awkwardly over the controller he had been holding. He was twelve, big for his age, with the same wavy dark hair as his mother, but right now he looked like he wanted to shrink into the weave of the carpet.
"Lucy," Wyatt muttered, not looking directly at me. "I... I swear I didn't know."
"It's fine, Wyatt," I whispered, though my voice cracked on the second word.
"It isn't fine," Grandma June said softly. She reached across the arm of the chair and touched my shoulder. Her hand was warm and dry, steady as an anchor. "Don't you dare tell yourself this is fine, Lucy. Come here."
I stood up and moved over to her chair, perching on the edge of the ottoman. She pulled me against her side, wrapping an arm around me. I didn't cry. Crying felt dangerous, like if I started, all the unfairness of the last three years—the hand-me-down coats that didn't fit, the cancelled art classes because 'money was tight,' the way Brooke always made sure Wyatt’s hockey gear was brand-new while my school shoes came from clearance bins—would burst out of me all at once.
Down the hallway, the kitchen door swung shut, but it did nothing to block their voices.
"How could you do that?" Dad’s voice was muffled but furious. "June gave that money for Lucy! You told me it was ordered! You told me the warehouse in Chicago had a shipping delay!"
"The house needed groceries, Mark!" Brooke hissed back, her voice climbing into that shrill, defensive register she used whenever she was cornered. "Our car insurance came due on the fifteenth! Everything is twice as expensive this year! Do you think I enjoy juggling the bills every month while you sit at your drafting table pretending our budget doesn't exist?"
"Don't lie to me about the budget, Brooke! I put half my paycheck directly into that joint account every two weeks!"
"And it’s never enough!" Brooke snapped. "Wyatt had needs. He’s starting junior high competitive league next semester. He needed the gear, Mark! He needed something to keep his confidence up!"
"And what about Lucy?" Dad roared. "She's eleven years old! She asked for one thing! My mother sent the money to pay for it entirely! That wasn't our money to juggle!"
"Lucy has a whole other family!" Brooke yelled, completely dropping any pretense of keeping her voice down. "Her mother pays two hundred measly dollars in support and buys her whatever she wants when she visits! Sarah buys her clothes! Sarah can buy her the damn tablet! Why should my son get less just because your ex-wife lives in a nicer zip code?"
In the living room, Wyatt flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on his sweatpants. His face had gone pale.
"She used your money for my console," Wyatt whispered to the floor. "The console was four hundred bucks. I saw the price tag on the online cart last week when Mom left her browser open."
Grandma June’s eyes hardened. "Did you, son?"
Wyatt nodded slowly, looking terrified. "She told me Dad approved it. She told me... she said Lucy had already gotten an early gift from her mom, so we were focusing on me this week." He looked up at me, his eyes wide and shiny with real guilt. "Lucy, I swear. She told me you already had a tablet at your mom's house."
"I don't have one," I said, my voice barely audible. "Mom’s apartment has an old desktop from 2018. The screen flickers."
Wyatt swallowed hard. He looked down at the shiny black machine in his lap, then pushed it away from himself across the rug.
From the kitchen, a loud crash echoed—the sound of a cabinet door slamming violently against its frame.
"Give me the laptop," Dad demanded.
"No, Mark, stay out of my accounts—"
"I said give me the laptop, Brooke! We share this Amazon account! Give me the password or I’m calling the bank fraud line right now!"
There was a heavy pause, followed by the clatter of keystrokes. Lucy looked at Grandma June, whose lips were set in a thin, unforgiving line. Grandma wasn't a woman who shouted. My grandfather had passed away when Dad was in college, and Grandma June had worked thirty years as an administrative supervisor for the Ohio Department of Transportation. She understood ledgers, receipts, and rules. She had zero patience for cruelty dressed up as bookkeeping.
A minute later, the kitchen door opened. Dad stepped out into the hallway, holding his phone in one hand and the laptop in the other. His face was blotchy, his chest heaving under his flannel shirt.
He walked into the living room and set the laptop down on the low table, right beside my $7.99 socks.
"The check cleared on December thirteenth," Dad said, his voice shaking with pure, unadulterated rage. "On December fourteenth, Brooke made three purchases on Amazon. A custom gaming headset for Wyatt: ninety-nine dollars. A pro controller: seventy dollars. And a limited-edition gaming bundle: three hundred and eighty-nine dollars."
He looked up at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to physically erase the last twenty minutes.
"There was never an order for a tablet," Dad said. "There was never a backorder. She never even searched for it."
Brooke stood in the arched doorway of the living room, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was flushed dark pink, and she had abandoned all pretense of holiday cheer.
"Fine," Brooke spat, glaring at Grandma June. "You caught me. Are you happy now, June? You ruined Christmas morning for everyone. You made Wyatt feel like a criminal, you made Mark scream at me, and you turned this entire house upside down over a piece of plastic!"
"No, Brooke," Grandma June said, rising slowly to her feet. She stood straight, towering over Brooke despite being three inches shorter. "You stole four hundred dollars meant for an eleven-year-old child. You gave her clearance socks while you bought your son five hundred dollars' worth of electronics with my check. You didn't just ruin Christmas morning. You showed us exactly who you are."
Brooke let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I am his wife! This is my house too!"
"And Lucy is my daughter," Dad said, stepping directly between Brooke and the tree. "And you just stole from her."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. Wyatt pulled his hoodie over his head and buried his face in his hands.
Brooke stared at Dad, her jaw dropping slightly as if she hadn't anticipated that he would ever draw a line in the sand. For three years, Dad had been the peacemaker, the guy who smoothed over arguments, the guy who said *'let's just all get along.'*
That guy was gone.
"Pack a bag, Brooke," Dad said quietly.
Brooke blinked, stunned. "Excuse me?"
May you like
"I said pack a bag. Take Wyatt and go to your sister's house in Dublin for the rest of the day. Because if you stay in this room right now, I'm going to say things that can never be taken back."
***
