Page 89 of What Goes Around

One: a $100,000 fund available at eighteen, with limited early withdrawals for “necessary expenses” provided receipts were submitted.

Two: a $200,000 fund set to open when I turned twenty-five.

A mother preparing for a future she thought she would live to see.

A mother ensuring her child would be safe, educated, independent.

And I had never known any of it.

In my last life, when I turned eighteen, the remaining balance should have transferred fully to me.

Except… it didn’t.

No attorney contacted me.

No forms.

No mention of a trust.

Nothing.

I could only guess what had happened.

Maybe Marissa forged my signature.

Maybe she slipped withdrawal documents or beneficiary transfers into the stack when she “helped” me with my college paperwork, something I had once been grateful for.

I remembered that gratitude now with a kind of dull disgust.

I had trusted her so desperately it hurt to think about it.

I’d been naive.

Gullible.

Easy to mislead.

And at twenty-five, when the second trust fund would have opened, I hadn’t been in any condition to notice anything. The drugs, the captivity… I had gone days without remembering my own name clearly. Signing something without knowing?

Very possible.

That thought brought back the memory of the boutique. Marissa pulling a card from the zipped inner pocket of her wallet, hesitating before using it, like she hoped I wouldn’t notice.

Was it my money?

A few days later, through the attorney, I requested the trust’s transaction history.

The card was linked to the eighteen-year trust.

She had been using my money.

For clothes.

For Apple.

For God knows what else.

And probably for years.