Chapter 8: What Mia Said
She didn't answer the first call.
Or the second.
On the third, she picked up and said nothing — just breathing on the line, waiting.
"It's Emma," I said.
More silence.
"I'm not calling to fight," I said.
"I'm not recording this.
I just want to talk."
"Why?" Her voice was flat.
Defensive.
Younger-sounding than I expected.
"Because I think you're in a position you didn't choose, and I think you know more than you want to know, and I think you're trying to figure out what to do about it."
A long pause.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mia.
You sent my father that screenshot."
Silence.
"I know it was you," I said.
"He knows it was you.
We're not angry.
We just need to understand what happened."
I heard her exhale — a shaky, reluctant sound.
"She told me it was a loan," Mia said finally.
"That's what she said.
She said your dad owed her money from before they got married and she was just taking what was hers.
She said you'd never even notice because you didn't know the account existed."
"When did you find out the truth?"
"About four months ago.
I found the withdrawal form in her drawer.
I saw the signature.
I know what your handwriting looks like, Emma — we lived in the same house for four years." Her voice cracked slightly.
"It wasn't yours."
"And you kept quiet."
"She's my mother."
"I know."
"I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know how bad it was.
And then she started talking about Geoffrey and the arrangement and I realized—" She stopped.
"I realized it wasn't a loan.
It was never a loan."
"What was it?"
"She needed money.
Before she married your dad, she had debts.
Real ones.
Geoffrey helped her cover them in exchange for — I don't know exactly.
Favors.
Access.
She gave him information about your dad's business clients.
Things she overheard.
He used it." Mia's voice dropped.
"I don't know all of it.
I only know what I heard."
I gripped the phone tighter.
"Mia, I need you to say that to a solicitor.
Everything you just told me."
"She'll never forgive me."
"She forged my signature and st*le from my dead mother's account," I said.
"She buried a scholarship letter so I'd stay home and keep working.
She let you wreck my dress this morning because she needed to keep you angry at me so you wouldn't think too clearly about everything else." I paused.
"You already know who she is.
You've known for four months.
You sent that screenshot because part of you wanted someone to stop it."
The line was quiet for a long time.
"If I talk to a solicitor," she said, "will your dad—"
"He won't go after you," I said.
"You weren't part of the fraud.
You were a nineteen-year-old girl who found out her mother had done something terrible and didn't know how to handle it.
There's a difference."
Another long silence.
"I destroyed your dress," she said.
"I know."
"I was angry at you.
I've been angry at you for years because she always — she always made it seem like you were the reason things were hard.
Like if you weren't there, everything would be fine." She exhaled.
"I know that's not true.
I think I've known for a while."
"I know," I said again.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"About the dress.
I'm actually sorry."
I sat with that for a moment.
It wasn't enough to fix four years.
But it was real.
"Come to the solicitor's office tomorrow," I said.
"I'll text you the address.
Bring anything you have — the withdrawal form if you still have access to it, anything else you found.
Come and tell the truth."
A pause.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Okay."
I ended the call and sat in the car park outside Fitch's building.
My father was leaning against the car twenty feet away, watching me without watching me — present but giving me space.
I walked over.
"She'll come tomorrow," I said.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Good," he said.
"That's good."
We stood there for a moment in the afternoon light — not celebrating, not relieved yet, just standing in the strange quiet that comes after something has shifted but before anything has fully landed.
"I want to go home," I said.
May you like
"Yes," he said.
"Let's go home."
