“You thought I would pay?”
“Once the family was together again, perhaps you would help.” She looked at me. “I was going to ask you to refinance.”
The bedrooms, the sudden reconciliation, Ryan’s supposed notice to his landlord: she had made them parts of another emergency I was expected to solve. She hadn’t even known who lived in my home before deciding it could finance her escape.
“You planned to move Ryan’s family in and then ask me to mortgage this house?”
“When you say it like that—”
“How else can I say it?”
My phone rang before she answered. It was my attorney, and I stepped into the dining room, still able to see Mom at the island.
He asked whether Diane was there and told me to preserve the documents. They had located Charles Mercer in Sarasota, and there was more to tell me.
Mercer had contacted federal authorities two months earlier and was now cooperating with investigators. The demand letter, his lawyer said, hadn’t come from him.
“Then who sent it?” I asked.
The PDF’s metadata indicated it had been created on a laptop registered to Ryan Whitmore.
I looked through the doorway. My brother raised his head, saw my face, and stood.
“Mara.”
I returned to the kitchen and told them what my attorney had said. Mom stared at Ryan while Kelsey shifted away from him.
“You?” Mom asked. “You blackmailed me?”
He rubbed his face. Six months earlier, he had found an equipment-auction buyer connected to Charlie and begun investigating.
“I sent the letter,” he admitted. “I wanted to know if she’d pay.”
Kelsey said he had told her it came from a collection attorney. He claimed he needed proof Mom still had money after taking their $78,000 and repeatedly insisting nothing remained.
“You set me up,” Mom whispered.
“You’ve been setting us up our whole lives.”
Ryan turned to me and said he hadn’t intended to take the money. I wanted to believe him, but his confession had made one thing clear: being deceived hadn’t stopped him from choosing deception himself.