Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail
I didn't confront my father that night.
I walked out of his study, pulled my coat back on, told my mother I was too tired to eat soup, and walked out the front door before my father could step out of the garage.
When I got home, I laid my phone on the kitchen table in front of Dan.
He looked at the image of the receipt for a long time. The house was completely silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.
"October fourteenth," Dan murmured, tracing the date on the screen with his index finger. "That was the weekend she told you she was sick."
"He paid for her appointment," I whispered. My voice sounded small, like it belonged to a child. "Dan... why would my father pay for her gynecologist appointment in October if he wasn't having an affair with her?"
"Because he’s been paying for a lot more than that, Molly," Dan said quietly.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a manila folder he had brought home from his meeting with the attorney that afternoon.
"My lawyer ran a preliminary asset sweep as part of the paternity filing," Dan explained, sliding a printed document across the table. "Because Tessa named me as the father of an unborn child in a public setting with witnesses, my legal team has the right to establish her financial dependencies to prove motive for false paternity claims."
I looked down at the bank records attached to the file.
Starting in June of the previous year, a private Venmo account linked to a secondary bank account owned by Philip Arrington Insurance Agency had been transferring exactly $1,200 on the first of every month to Tessa Lowe.
Twelve hundred dollars. Every single month.
The memo line on the first three transfers read: Rent Assistance - Promotional Marketing.
By August, the memo line was left blank.
And then I saw the biggest entry: On December 22nd—three days before my Christmas party—a wire transfer of $8,500 had been executed from my father’s personal money market account into a newly opened checking account in Tessa’s name.
Eight thousand five hundred dollars.
"She wasn't just sleeping with him, Molly," Dan said, his eyes filled with a deep, dark sadness as he looked at me. "He was maintaining her. He’s been funding her life for almost a year."
The memories hit me like a series of physical blows.
Tessa buying those expensive new leather boots in September that she claimed she got "on sale." Tessa upgrading her apartment from a studio to a two-bedroom on Kingston Pike. Tessa suddenly having enough money to pay off her credit card debt from beauty school.
I sat down in the chair across from Dan, buried my face in my hands, and wept.
I didn't cry for the loss of Tessa. I didn't cry out of anger. I cried because my entire childhood—every Sunday dinner, every Christmas morning, every time my father had kissed my mother's cheek and called her "his rock"—felt like a beautifully constructed stage play.
Dan stood up, walked around the table, and pulled me into his arms. He didn't say I told you so. He didn't express triumph that his name was beginning to be cleared. He just held me while I shattered into pieces against his shoulder.
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"What do we do now?" I choked out against his chest.
"Now," Dan whispered into my hair, "we find out why she tried to put his baby on me."
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