Chapter 9
Why the porch railing
had remained broken all summer.
They had been sacrificing
for a daughter they believed was struggling.
And Ranata had been collecting the sacrifices.
“How much is due next?” I asked.
Dad slid over a third sheet.
“A payment of forty-two thousand
was scheduled for Monday.
Ranata told us it would prevent
a foreclosure against your farm.”
I looked at my sister.
She couldn't meet my eyes.
“My farm was sold Wednesday,” I said.
Dad slowly nodded.
That single fact
seemed to destroy the final excuse.
I reached for my phone.
“Dad, can you call your bank tonight?”
“It's Saturday.”
“The fraud department may still be available.
If not, we'll contact them first thing Monday.”
I looked at the transfer instructions.
“Don't authorize anything else.”
He nodded again.
Mom whispered,
“What if we can't stop it?”
“We'll find out.”
Ranata leaned forward.
“That payment isn't optional.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
Her lips parted.
Then closed.
Desmond answered.
“Because the lender gave her
until Monday to make a substantial payment
or negotiate new terms.”
Another silence.
Then Dad said,
“So you were going to tell us
Fay might lose her farm
to save your business?”
Ranata began to cry.
Real tears this time.
Or at least tears that looked real.
“I was desperate.”
I believed that part.
What I didn't believe
was that desperation explained fourteen years
of deliberate deception.
I rose from the table.
“I need copies of everything.”
Dad looked uncertain.
“Can we trust you with them?”
The words escaped him
before he understood what he'd said.
I froze.
Mom lifted her head.
Desmond looked at the floor.
And my father,
seeing my expression,
seemed to realize
he had just repeated the same mistake
that had brought us here.
“Fay,” he whispered.
I stood very still.
Fourteen years of lies
had been exposed in one evening.
But the habit of doubting me
was apparently harder to remove.
“I wasn't asking for your originals,” I said.
“I meant photographs.
You should keep your records.”
Dad pushed the papers toward me.
“Take whatever you need.”
I shook my head.
“Not like that.
We'll make copies together.”
He swallowed.
“All right.”
I photographed every page.
Every transfer.
Every invoice.
Every suspicious signature.
Desmond forwarded me a copy
of the loan notice
after asking Ranata whether she disputed its authenticity.
She didn't answer.
Then I put my phone away.