Chapter 3 - MY SISTER'S PERFECT HOUSE HAD AN UGLY SECRET
“I KNOW MOM SIGNED YOUR NAME, MIRANDA. BUT SHE SAID YOU WOULD FORGIVE HER!”
Lauren blurted out those words forty-seven minutes after entering my hospital room.
Then she covered her mouth.
Too late.
I'd heard everything.
She stood near the window wearing designer jeans, expensive sneakers, and a pale pink sweater that probably cost more than some families spent on groceries.
Her long blonde hair was perfectly curled.
Her makeup was flawless.
She looked like someone arriving for brunch, not someone visiting her critically injured sister.
When she'd first walked in, she hadn't hugged me.
She'd looked around the room, glanced at the monitors, and said:
“Wow. Mom made it sound like you were doing better.”
I stared at her.
“I'm glad my injuries haven't inconvenienced you too much.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Don't start.”
That was Lauren's favorite phrase.
Don't start.
As though any conversation she disliked was automatically an attack.
I'd heard it when I questioned her spending.
When I objected to Andrew's rude comments.
When I refused to pay for renovations at my parents' house.
Now I was hearing it while lying in a hospital bed with a damaged lung.
Julian sat quietly in the corner.
I'd asked him to stay.
Lauren clearly wasn't pleased.
“Why is he here?”
“Because we're discussing legal documents.”
“This is a family matter.”
“It became a legal matter when somebody forged my signature.”
She looked away.
I waited.
“Lauren,” I said, “tell me what happened.”
She clasped her hands together.
“Andrew had some investments that were taking longer than expected to pay out. We found the house, and we couldn't afford to lose it.”
“So you asked me for help.”
“Yes.”
“And I said no.”
“You said you didn't want to use the lake house.”
“Correct.”
“But Andrew found another way to structure everything.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Another way?”
“He said the loan would only last a few months. Once his development payment came through, he'd pay it off.”
“And what did Mom and Dad do?”
Lauren rubbed her forehead.
“Dad said you were being stubborn.”
I almost smiled.
Of course he had.
“Go on.”
“He said you'd helped everybody before, and you probably didn't realize how badly we needed this.”
“That still doesn't explain my signature.”
Lauren looked at Julian.
He remained silent.
“Lauren,” I said, “look at me.”
She did.
“Did you see somebody sign my name?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I didn't understand what was happening.”
“That wasn't my question.”
She swallowed.
“We were at Mom and Dad's house. Andrew had brought some documents over. He said the lender was getting impatient.”
“And?”
“Mom took the paperwork into Dad's office.”
I could picture that office.
Dark wooden furniture.
Framed family portraits.
A glass cabinet displaying golf trophies.
A desk where my father paid bills and reviewed financial statements.
Lauren continued.
“When she came out, the signature page was filled in.”
“Did you ask who signed it?”
“Andrew said it was handled.”
“Lauren.”
She began crying.
“I saw Mom practicing your signature earlier that afternoon.”
The words seemed to settle heavily over the room.
I looked toward the ceiling.
For years, I'd wondered whether my family loved Lauren more than they loved me.
Now I was beginning to wonder whether they'd ever seen me as anything other than a resource.
Julian leaned forward.
“Lauren, this is serious. Are you willing to provide a truthful statement about what you witnessed?”
She looked frightened.
“Would Mom get in trouble?”
“I can't promise what investigators will decide.”
“She's our mother!”
I turned toward her.
“And I'm your sister.”
She had no answer.
A nurse entered to check my oxygen level.
Lauren fell silent while the monitor was adjusted.
Once we were alone again, she pulled a chair closer.
“Miranda, please. I know this looks awful, but nobody wanted to hurt you.”
I stared at her.
“You forged documents to put my property at risk.”
“I didn't forge anything!”
“But you knew.”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“Then you decided keeping your dream house was more important than telling me the truth.”
Her tears started falling again.
“I thought Andrew would pay it back.”
“And if he didn't?”
“He said he would!”
I studied her face.
For the first time, I saw something beneath the defensiveness.
Fear.
Real fear.
“Lauren, how much money does Andrew actually have?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Not the number he tells people. Not the projected value of his investments. How much money is in your joint accounts?”
She looked toward the door.
“I don't handle that stuff.”
“Does he show you bank statements?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know what his company owns?”
“He has development projects.”
“Which ones?”
She looked increasingly uncomfortable.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because someone borrowed six hundred and forty thousand dollars against my house, and your husband is supposedly going to repay it.”
Lauren pressed her lips together.
Then she said something that made my stomach drop.
“Andrew says we're waiting on a commercial development payment from a property in New Jersey.”
“When is the payment due?”
“Last month.”
“Last month?”
“He said there were delays.”
“What kind of delays?”
“I don't know.”
I watched her twist her wedding ring.
Lauren had always been wonderful at imagining the life she wanted.
She was less interested in understanding what that life cost.
At eighteen, she'd wanted an expensive college.
At twenty-four, a destination wedding.
At thirty-one, a house with a nursery, a home theater, and custom closets.
Each time, someone else was expected to make the numbers work.
Usually me.
But this time, the numbers appeared to have escaped everyone's control.
“Have you considered selling the new house?” I asked.
She looked horrified.
“We just moved in!”
“Lauren, you may not be able to afford it.”
“Andrew says everything will work out.”
“Andrew also said I agreed to secure his loan.”
Her face crumpled.
“I don't know what to do.”
For a moment, I saw the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
Before money became the language of our family.
Before every disagreement became a negotiation.
I wanted to reach for her hand.
Instead, I asked the question I had spent my entire adult life avoiding.
“Lauren, if I had died in that accident, would you have told anyone about the forged signature?”
She stared at me.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Then she whispered:
“I don't know.”
That answer hurt more than a lie.
At least a lie would have meant she understood how terrible the truth sounded.
I looked away.
“I need you to leave.”
“Miranda—”
“Please.”
Lauren stood slowly.
At the doorway, she paused.
“I really do love you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then start acting like it.”
She walked out.
Julian sat beside me for several minutes without speaking.
Finally, I asked:
“Can someone love you and still be willing to let you lose everything?”
He considered the question.
“People can feel love and still make profoundly selfish choices. But love doesn't erase responsibility.”
I nodded.
He gathered his papers.
Before leaving, he checked his phone.
A new message had arrived from the investigator he'd retained.
Julian read it, then frowned.
“What now?” I asked.
May you like
He looked at me.
“Miranda, the lender has found another application. Andrew was trying to borrow an additional three hundred thousand dollars against the same property.”
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