Chapter 6 - The Audit
The moment Mr. Vance left my office, I called my senior forensic accountant, Marcus.
For six straight hours, Marcus and I dug through every single ledger, bank statement, tax filing, and credit line connected to my firm and my personal accounts over the past three years.
The picture that emerged was staggering.
Trisha hadn't just stolen the private school tuition. During her four-month stint as my temporary receptionist, she had stolen blank company checks, forged my name on three separate occasion payments to her landlord, and linked her personal Amazon account to my firm’s office supply corporate line.
The total amount stolen over thirty-six months was $64,200.
Add that to the $40,000 tuition fund she believed was rightfully hers, and my sister had quietly bled over one hundred thousand dollars out of my life while treating me like a cold, heartless piggy bank.
Neil arrived at my office at 7:00 p.m. with a box of takeout food. When I showed him the spreadsheets Marcus had compiled, my normally soft-spoken husband slammed his hand down onto the desk so hard the coffee mugs rattled.
"She belongs in prison, Andrea," Neil said, his jaw working violently. "This isn't family drama anymore. This is grand larceny and corporate embezzlement. She ran a criminal operation out of your own business!"
"If I report this to the police immediately," I said quietly, rubbing my throbbing temples, "she will be arrested in front of Logan and Stella. My parents will lose their minds, and they will try to drag Hannah into the middle of the trial."
"So what are you going to do?" Neil asked, sitting down beside me. "You can't let her walk away from sixty-four thousand dollars in fraud!"
"I'm not letting her walk away," I replied, looking up at the whiteboard where Marcus had mapped out every fraudulent transaction. "I am going to give her a choice. A very simple, very painful choice."
At 8:30 p.m., Neil and I drove to my parents' house.
I didn't call ahead. I pushed open the front door without knocking.
My parents were sitting in the living room watching television while Trisha sat at the dining room table, scrolling through her phone with a sullen, bitter expression on her face. Logan and Stella were upstairs playing video games.
My mother stood up instantly, her face lighting up with defensive hope. "Andrea! You came back! I knew you'd come to your senses—"
"Quiet, Mom," I said, my voice carrying an absolute coldness that froze her in her tracks.
I walked over to the dining table, pulled out a heavy paper dossier from my briefcase, and dropped it onto the wood right in front of Trisha. The thick stack of paper landed with a loud, metallic thud.
Trisha glared at me. "What is this? More of your drama?"
"Open it," I said.
Trisha sneered, reaching out and flipping open the front cover.
Her eyes scanned the top page—a formal audit report bearing the red stamp of my firm's legal counsel, followed by photocopies of her forged signatures, bank routing authorizations, and fraudulent check images.
Page after page after page.
The sneer vanished from Trisha’s face. Her skin turned a sickly, ash-grey color. Her hands began to shake so violently that she dropped the pages onto the table.
"Trisha?" my father asked, standing up from his chair, alarmed by his daughter's reaction. "What is that paper?"
"It’s an audit, Dad," I said, turning to face my parents. "While Trisha was working for me two years ago, she stole my firm's banking information. She has embezzled sixty-four thousand two hundred dollars from my company to pay her rent, her kids' tuition, and her online shopping bills."
My mother let out a strangled shriek. "No! That's a lie! Trisha wouldn't do that!"
"The signatures are certified by a forensic handwriting expert, Mom," I said flatly. "The IP addresses matching the online transfers trace directly to Trisha’s phone and laptop."
My father walked over to the table, picked up the folder, and began flipping through the pages. As he read the numbers and saw the forged signatures of his eldest daughter’s name, his shoulders slumped. The denial in his eyes finally shattered completely.
"Trisha..." my father whispered, his voice trembling with profound disappointment. "Is this true?"
May you like
Trisha didn't answer. She pulled her knees up to her chest on the chair, burying her face in her arms, letting out a pitiful, ragged sob.
"I’m calling the police, Trisha," I said. "Unless you sign the agreement on the last page right now."
