Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 02

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 02

“Vera, come here.”

Saturday morning. Dad was actually sitting in the living room, a bank statement spread across the table. I thought he was finally going to pay me back for the notarization fee. Mom had said “end of the month” last month. That month had come and gone.

“Look at this.” He slid the statement toward me, pointing at a transaction. “Last month, the 20th—did you take money from the joint account?”

I looked at the amount: $3,600.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Then who? Only you three know the password.”

“Zach and Sherry know it too.”

Dad shook his head—that look of a man who’d already decided and just wanted confirmation. “Zach was at the driving school that day. Sherry was at the music shop with your mom. You were home that day, weren’t you?”

I was. I’d had a 103degree fever the night before, dragged myself to the urgent care clinic, and spent the next day with a pounding headache. But in this house, staying home meant only one thing: suspicion.

“You were home. Money went missing. I’m not accusing you—just asking.”

Not accusing. Just asking.

That was worse than a direct accusation. It left a loophole—you couldn’t argue back, but you were still pinned to the suspect’s chair.

“Dad. It really wasn’t me. The bank has cameras. Check the footage.”

“Come on. Are we really going to pull surveillance footage on our own family?” He folded the statement and sighed. “Whatever. If you took it, you took it. Just tell us next time.”

If you took it.

No proof needed. No investigation required. No need to clear my name. Because I was the least important one—cheapest to blame.

At lunch, Mom suddenly said, “Did your dad tell you about the three thousand six hundred?”

“He did. It wasn’t me.”

“Fine, fine—doesn’t matter who did it. We’re changing the joint account password.”

She looked at me. I knew exactly what that meant. Password would change—and I wouldn’t get the new one. My brother and sister would. But I wouldn’t. A suspect didn’t need to know.

Zach came in with his bowl, caught the tail end. “What password?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mom said.

He shrugged and sat down. I noticed he was wearing new shoes—white, that flashy logo on the tongue. Exactly the pair he’d been whining about at dinner last week.

Three thousand six hundred dollars.

I said nothing. Because nothing would help. In this family’s logic, my brother buying shoes was a “need.” Me “stealing” was a “reasonable suspicion.” Even when the timeline lined up perfectly. Even when he was wearing the evidence on his feet.

That afternoon, I took Sherry to the music shop. On the bus, she tugged my sleeve.

“Vera… about the money…”

She lowered her voice, eyes darting. “I saw Zach come out of Mom and Dad’s room that day. He was on his phone, making a transfer.”

I looked at her. “Did you tell them?”

She shook her head, lips pressed together. Finally, she murmured, “They wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

That line cut like a dull blade. Not because of what she said—but because a fifteenyearold already knew how this family worked. Speaking up for me was useless.

“It’s okay,” I said.

The tuner worked on Sherry’s piano. She sat on a stool, feet swinging. “Vera… are you sad?”

“No.”

“You always say ‘no’ when you’re most sad.”

I turned to the window. Across the street, an airline ad played on the mall’s LED screen. Someone pushing a suitcase through an airport, smiling easy.

Sherry said softly, “If you want to cry, cry. I won’t tell.”

I didn’t cry. My eyes stung, but I held it in.

Back home, a package sat on the shoe rack—already opened, addressed to Zach. A sports watch. $2,400 on the tag. Plus today’s shoes—$3,600 plus $2,400. Six thousand dollars total. The joint account was short $3,600. My brother spent six thousand. The difference? Mom covered it, no question.

I checked my phone. My bank balance: $2,200. Every cent I’d saved over a summer of parttime jobs. Subtract a bus ticket and a deposit for a new city—that got me two weeks. Two weeks after that? I hadn’t figured out yet.

But I knew one thing: staying here, I wouldn’t even last two weeks. Because this house would “borrow” my last $2,200 and then forget, saying, “You don’t need it right away.” And next time money went missing, they’d look at me first.

That night, laughter drifted from the living room. Zach showing Mom his new watch: “Nice.” Dad teasing Sherry to play her new piece. The piano spilled out—soft, whole, an unbroken bubble.

I was the one outside the bubble. I could see the light in it, but I couldn’t get in.

On my phone screen, I searched a new keyword. Not “Can minors rent an apartment?” But “How to start from scratch.”

The results said the same thing over and over: leaving would be hard. But staying would be harder.