Chapter 6 - The Cracks in the Facade
Preston worked at West Texas Freight Logistics, housed in a sprawling corporate park on the industrial loop. His office was on the second floor, overlooking a sea of tractor-trailers and loading docks.
When I stepped through the glass double doors into the reception lobby, the receptionist—a young woman who had seen me drop off Walter’s homemade barbecue for Preston’s birthdays over the years—smiled warmly.
“Mrs. Dunn! It’s so good to see you! Are you here to have lunch with Preston?”
“No, sweetheart. Just need five minutes of his time. Is he in his office?”
“He is, but he’s pretty stressed out today. Let me buzz him.”
“Don't bother, darling. I’ll just tap on his door.”
I walked down the carpeted hallway. Preston’s door was half-open. He was sitting behind his wide desk with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, and his face buried in two trembling hands. On the desk were stacks of manila folders and two empty energy drink cans.
He looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, and the gray hairs around his temples seemed to have multiplied overnight.
I tapped my knuckles against the doorframe. “Preston?”
He jumped, his head snapping up. For a split second, relief flashed across his eyes, followed immediately by guarded exhaustion.
“Mom? What are you doing here? Did something happen to your house?”
“No, son. My house is fine.” I walked in, closed the heavy door behind me, and sat down in one of the leather visitor chairs. I set my purse in my lap.
Preston sighed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “Mom, if you’re here to lecture me about Wednesday, I really don't have the bandwidth today. Bennett got sent home from preschool yesterday with a fever, Jillian had an anxiety attack because she had to cancel her weekend trip to Scottsdale, and I’ve been up since four managing carrier shortages. I’m drowning.”
“Why was Jillian going to Scottsdale?” I asked mildly.
“A wellness retreat with Chloe,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “She’s been under an incredible amount of stress lately. She needed a break.”
“I see. And how much was the wellness retreat?”
Preston frowned, his eyes narrowing defensively. “Why are you interrogating me about our finances? Jillian handles her own personal spending. We have our joint account for household bills, and she has her personal allowance from the online consulting she does with her sister.”
“Online consulting,” I repeated. The phrase tasted like vinegar. “Is that what she calls it?”
“Mom, stop. What do you actually want?”
I reached into my purse, pulled out a neat manila envelope, and laid it gently in the center of his desk, right on top of his shipping manifests.
“I want you to look at three pieces of paper, Preston.”
He stared at the envelope with deep suspicion. “What is this? An invoice for the babysitting you didn't do?”
“Just open it.”
He scoffed, grabbed the envelope, and slid his thumb under the flap. He pulled out the printouts.
The top sheet was the mobile deposit image of Check #1402—my check for $185, altered with Jillian’s name and deposited into her personal account. Beneath it were the checks for February and March.
Preston stared at the payee line. He didn't move. The color slowly drained from his face until his skin matched the gray fluorescent light of the office.
“Where... where did you get this?” he stammered.
“From my bank records this morning. Clara Henderson hasn't received a penny of dance tuition since December. Ellie was pulled from her spring recital because Jillian told Clara that my mind was slipping and I couldn't afford to pay anymore.”
Preston shook his head violently, entering immediate denial. “No. No, this has to be an administrative mistake. Jillian wouldn't... she probably deposited it to pay Clara through Zelle or an online portal! You don't know how modern banking works, Mom!”
“Turn to the next page, Preston.”
He hesitated, his hands beginning to shake. He flipped the checks over.
Behind them were Brenda’s printouts from Chloe’s Marketplace account.
High-resolution photos of Ellie’s Victorian dollhouse sitting on their scullery counter, listed for $350.
Photos of Ellie’s lavender winter coat, tags attached, listed for $120.
Photos of Bennett’s wooden climbing arch, his John Deere tractor, and the American Girl doll.
All with their home address listed as the private collection depot.
“She didn't pay Clara through Zelle,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, steady hum. “She took the tuition checks, forged my signature line endorsement, and pocketed the cash. Just like she pocketed the cash from every single birthday and Christmas gift I bought your children for two straight years.”
Preston’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes darted frantically across the screen captures, recognizing the distinctive grey marble countertops, the pattern of their kitchen backsplash, and the hardwood floor of their own guest room.
“Mom...” he choked out, his voice cracking like a terrified teenager's. “This... this can’t...”
“She dropped my strawberry cake in the garbage on Saturday, Preston,” I said softly, leaning forward. “Not because it was messy. Not because she ordered a better one. She dropped it in the trash because she couldn't sell it for cash, and because every time Ellie smiled at me, it reminded Jillian that she is hollow inside.”
May you like
Preston collapsed backward into his office chair. The papers scattered across his desk. He buried his face in his hands, and for the first time since his father Walter died, I watched my grown son break into silent, shuddering sobs.
***
