Chapter 1: The Easiest Person to Blame
"I have been Maya Chen's father for sixteen years, and in sixteen years I have never once had reason to doubt her.
Until tonight, apparently.
My wife Sandra found me in the living room at half past seven and told me two hundred dollars was missing from her purse.
Her eyes were already moving toward the hallway, toward Maya's bedroom door, before she finished the sentence.
"Sandra," I said.
"Don't."
She didn't listen.
I followed her into the hallway and watched her knock twice before pushing the door open.
Maya was seated on her bed doing homework, earbuds in, completely unbothered by the world.
She pulled one earbud out and looked up.
"Two hundred dollars," Sandra said.
"It was in my purse this morning."
Maya's expression shifted from confused to hurt so quickly I almost missed the transition.
"Mom, I didn't touch your purse."
"It was there this morning."
"I know.
I didn't take it."
Sandra folded her arms.
"Then explain where it went."
That was the sentence that put something cold in my chest.
Not because I believed Maya had taken anything.
But because I recognized the tone.
It was the tone Sandra used when the verdict was already in and the conversation was just a formality.
Maya looked at me.
"Dad.
Please.
I swear I didn't take it."
I looked at my daughter — homework spread across her bed, pencil still in her hand, completely blindsided — and something in the back of my mind started pulling at me.
Two hundred dollars in cash.
Sandra almost never carried cash.
I walked back to the kitchen without explaining myself.
On the counter beside the fruit bowl was the small basket where Sandra dropped receipts.
I picked through them until I found what I was looking for.
A delivery receipt.
Timestamped that afternoon.
Payment method: cash.
Amount: one hundred and ninety-eight dollars.
I walked back to the hallway and held it up.
"Wait.
Didn't you take cash out earlier?"
Sandra frowned.
"I don't remember."
"You paid the delivery guy with cash." I kept my voice level.
"It's right here."
The silence that followed was the kind that fills a room completely.
I looked at my wife, then at my daughter still sitting on her bed with red eyes and a pencil in her hand.
"Maya, I believe you."
Then I looked at Sandra.
"You can't accuse her just because she's the easiest person to blame."
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Will Sandra admit she was wrong — or will she double down and make this worse?
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