A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
You think you know everything. You're wrong. Ask Mom about the blue box.
I read it twice.
The words weren't signed, but I knew they were Ethan's. There was arrogance in the way he spoke them, a confidence that, even when cornered, made me tremble.
The blue box.
I vaguely remembered it from my childhood. A small metal box my mother kept on the top shelf of her closet. It held family documents, antique jewelry, insurance policies—things adults considered important but children found boring.
Why had Ethan brought it out now?
When the trial resumed, the prosecution called an accountant named Daniel Park to testify. In a calm voice, he explained the transactions to the jury, making the betrayal sound like a mathematical calculation. Money from federal contracts. Transfers to shell accounts. Loans secured by properties my parents believed were collateral for expansion. My grandfather's old land, refinanced, mortgaged, and nearly lost.
