Chapter 5 - Everything He Took Could Not Be Bought Back
The attorney's name was Rebecca Sloan.
She was in her early fifties, wore rimless glasses, and had the unnerving ability to listen without reacting.
For nearly forty minutes, nobody interrupted as she reviewed copies of transfers, authorization forms, mortgage documents, and forged letters.
Mom sat beside me.
Dad sat across from us.
Liam sat alone at the end of the conference table.
When Rebecca finally removed her glasses, I knew the news wasn't going to be good.
"How long have these transfers been occurring?"
"Ten years," I said.
"And Mr. Liam Perkins had authorization?"
"At some point."
Liam shifted.
Rebecca looked at him.
"Did Isaac personally authorize you?"
"No."
"Who did?"
"Dad."
She turned toward my father.
Dad stared at his hands.
"I signed something."
"Did you understand what you were signing?"
"No."
Liam interrupted.
"You knew it involved the account."
Dad looked at him.
"You told me it was for taxes."
Rebecca raised one hand.
"I'm not here to decide credibility yet."
Yet.
The word landed heavily.
She turned to me.
"Do you know the total amount you transferred?"
"I calculated last night."
I slid my notebook across the table.
"Four hundred and twelve thousand, six hundred dollars."
Mom made a tiny sound beside me.
She hadn't known.
Dad looked sick.
Liam closed his eyes.
Rebecca studied the number.
"And how much is currently accounted for?"
"That's what we need to determine."
She nodded.
"I strongly recommend a forensic accountant."
"Do it."
Liam looked at me.
"You don't need to drag strangers into this."
I turned toward him.
"You lost the right to decide who's involved."
Rebecca continued calmly.
"I'll also need complete statements from every linked account."
Liam crossed his arms.
"What if I don't agree?"
"Then Isaac and your parents may choose to involve law enforcement."
The room went quiet.
Mom looked at Liam.
He stared out the window.
Finally, he whispered, "I'll cooperate."
That afternoon, we went to the bank.
By evening, the first numbers appeared.
The original account still existed.
Almost nothing remained in it.
Over ten years, money had moved through multiple accounts.
Some had paid household bills.
Some had paid Dad's old business debt.
A significant amount had gone toward Caleb's medical expenses.
But large transfers had gone into Liam's business entities.
Properties.
Vehicle purchases.
Credit cards.
Personal loans.
And withdrawals that nobody could immediately explain.
Three days later, Rebecca called us back.
This time, a forensic accountant named Marcus Hale joined us.
He placed a spreadsheet on the table.
"Based on records available so far, we can categorize approximately three hundred and seventy-eight thousand dollars."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Where?"
Marcus pointed down the page.
"Roughly sixty-eight thousand went toward debts associated with Thomas Perkins' former construction company."
Dad looked down.
"Approximately ninety-four thousand went toward medical costs connected to Caleb Moreno."
Liam nodded.
"About one hundred and forty-one thousand moved into property acquisitions and related expenses controlled by Liam."
Mom inhaled sharply.
"That leaves?"
"Approximately seventy-five thousand in personal spending, cash withdrawals, and miscellaneous transfers."
I stared at Liam.
"What personal spending?"
He said nothing.
Marcus continued.
"There's also an unresolved issue."
Of course there was.
"What?"
"One property produced rental income."
He turned the page.
"Considerable rental income."
"How much?"
"About eighty-three thousand dollars over several years."
My eyes moved toward Liam.
"Where did that go?"
He rubbed his jaw.
"I used some of it."
"For what?"
"Expenses."
Marcus spoke.
"Not family expenses."
Liam looked at him.
"I know."
I pushed away from the table.
Mom touched my arm.
I stopped.
Rebecca looked at Liam.
"Mr. Perkins, this is the moment to disclose anything else."
He stared at the table for several seconds.
Then he said, "I have debts."
"What kind?" Rebecca asked.
"Personal."
"Amount?"
"About fifty thousand."
"Credit cards?"
"Some."
"What else?"
He didn't answer.
I knew that silence.
It had followed him through every revelation.
"What else, Liam?"
He finally looked at me.
"I gambled."
Mom closed her eyes.
Dad whispered, "Son."
Liam shook his head.
"Don't."
"How much?" I asked.
"I don't know exactly."
"Then estimate."
"Maybe seventy."
I stared at him.
"Seventy thousand dollars?"
"Over years."
"Of stolen money?"
"Yes."
I stood.
Rebecca said my name quietly.
I ignored her.
I walked toward the window.
Phoenix spread beyond the glass.
Cars moved.
People went to work.
Life continued as though my family hadn't just collapsed around a conference table.
Behind me, Liam spoke.
"It started after Caleb's second surgery."
I didn't turn.
"I was twenty-nine. I owed everyone. Dad's debt. Hospital bills. Property loss."
"So you gambled?"
"Sports at first."
I turned.
"Don't make this sound accidental."
"I'm not."
"You bought houses. You gambled. You forged letters."
He stood too.
"I know what I did."
"Do you?"
His voice rose.
"I woke up every day knowing!"
Rebecca interrupted.
"Gentlemen."
But Liam kept going.
"You got to send money and feel like the good son."
I stepped toward him.
"Don't."
"You want to know why I hated those transfers?"
Mom stared at him.
Liam looked directly at me.
"Because every month, your name showed up."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It meant no matter what I did, you were still saving everyone."
His eyes were wet now.
"I was here. I was the one sitting in emergency rooms. I was the one holding Mom's hand when Dad disappeared for two days because he couldn't handle his business collapsing."
Dad looked away.
"I was the one dealing with Rachel when Caleb was sick."
His voice cracked.
"And then your money arrived."
I stared at him.
"You're saying you stole from them because you were jealous of me?"
"At some point, yes."
The room went silent.
There it was.
The truth beneath all the practical explanations.
Not medical bills.
Not Dad's debts.
Not investments.
Those explained some choices.
But not the cruelty of the letters.
Liam continued.
"You were the brave one."
I shook my head.
"Don't romanticize my life."
"Dad kept your military photos."
"He never said he was proud of me."
"He didn't have to."
Liam pointed toward our father.
"Every time anyone asked about us, he talked about you."
Dad looked stunned.
"That's not true."
"It is."
Liam laughed bitterly.
"'Isaac is serving overseas.' 'Isaac got promoted.' 'Isaac is doing something important.'"
He tapped his chest.
"What was I?"
Mom whispered, "Our son."
"No."
He looked at her.
"I was the one who stayed."
Tears spilled down Mom's cheeks.
"Liam, you could have told me you felt that way."
"How?"
"With words."
She pointed toward the forged letters.
"Real ones."
Liam sat down.
All the fight seemed to leave him.
"I hated him."
The confession hurt more than I expected.
He looked at me.
"And I loved him."
I said nothing.
"Every time you called, I was glad you were alive."
His mouth twisted.
"And every time you sent money, I hated how relieved everyone was."
He looked toward the table.
"So I started changing the story."
The first letter.
Then another.
Eventually, I became the absent son.
Liam became the faithful one.
He brought groceries with money I'd sent.
He paid bills with transfers from my account.
He repaired small things while leaving expensive repairs undone.
And every act made him look more devoted.
Mom whispered, "You wanted us to believe you were taking care of us."
Liam nodded.
"Yes."
"And Isaac wasn't."
Another nod.
I finally understood the entire architecture of the betrayal.
Money had started it.
Jealousy sustained it.
Pride protected it.
And silence allowed it to survive.
Rebecca spoke carefully.
"There are legal decisions that need to be made."
Mom looked at her.
"What happens to Liam?"
"That depends partly on what you decide to report."
Liam stood.
"No."
We all looked at him.
He reached into his pocket.
For one second, I thought he was leaving.
Instead, he placed a set of keys on the table.
"Those are for the Scottsdale house."
Then another key.
"The rental property."
He opened his wallet and removed two bank cards.
"I'll sign over everything."
I stared at him.
"That doesn't erase it."
"I know."
"I don't want your apology property."
"It's not an apology."
His voice was steady.
"It's repayment."
He looked at Mom.
"Sell whatever you have to sell."
Then at Dad.
"Use it for the house."
Then at me.
"And if you want to report me afterward, I won't fight you."
Nobody spoke.
Liam turned toward the door.
Before leaving, he stopped.
"There's one more thing."
My stomach tightened.
He looked at me.
"The forged letters weren't all one-way."
"What does that mean?"
He swallowed.
"I wrote letters to you too."
I felt cold.
"What letters?"
"From Mom and Dad."
Mom stood.
"I never wrote to Isaac?"
Liam shook his head.
"Sometimes you did."
"What did you change?"
He looked at me.
"I made you think they were doing well."
I remembered dozens of messages.
Dad's knee is much better.
Mom loves the new heater.
The roof looks great.
Don't worry about us.
They were proud of you.
They had everything they needed.
"How many?"
"Most of them."
I sat down slowly.
My entire memory of home had been curated by my brother.
Then Mom whispered something that cut through the room.
"Where are the real letters?"
Liam looked at her.
"I kept some."
"Where?"
"In my garage."
That evening, we drove to his house.
Behind paint cans and old tools sat another cardboard box.
Inside were ten years of letters my parents had actually written.
The first one I opened was dated nine years earlier.
Mom's handwriting filled three pages.
At the bottom, she had written:
Come home whenever you can, Isaac. There will always be a light on for you.
I sat on the concrete garage floor and cried for the first time in more than a decade.
May you like
And then I opened the next letter.
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