Chapter 6 - The Brother's Betrayal
While my parents were drowning in the legal and social consequences of their actions, my older brother Connor decided to take matters into his own hands.
Connor had always been the golden child. He was arrogant, entitled, and used to getting whatever he wanted through charm or aggression. He truly believed that as the oldest son, he was entitled to whatever family resources existed, regardless of who they belonged to.
On the evening of January 8th, I returned home from my shift at the library around 8:00 PM.
As I walked up the driveway, I noticed the garage light was on, and the front door was unlocked. When I opened the door to my room upstairs, I found Connor standing inside, my desk drawers pulled open, my papers scattered across the carpet.
He was frantically going through my personal files, searching for the original hard copies of Grandma’s trust documents and bank receipts.
"Looking for something, Connor?" I asked, leaning casually against the doorframe with my arms crossed.
Connor whipped around, his face pale and furious. "Where are they?! Where are the original trust deeds and bank statements?!"
"Safely stored in Mr. Harrison’s office safe downtown," I replied calmly. "Did you really think I’d leave the evidence sitting in an unlocked desk drawer?"
Connor marched over to me, towering over me, trying to use his size to intimidate me just as he had done when we were kids.
"You need to stop this right now, Maya!" he barked, his chest heaving. "Do you realize what you’ve done?! Dad lost his job today! Mom can’t even go to the grocery store without people staring at her! My final semester tuition at business school is due next week, and the bank just froze Dad’s secondary accounts!"
"Maybe you should get a job, Connor," I said smoothly. "The library is hiring student assistants. It pays nine dollars an hour."
Connor’s face contorted in rage. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me hard against the doorframe. "You little selfish bitch! You're destroying our family over money you didn't even earn! Grandma gave you that money because she knew you were a pathetic loser who couldn't make it on her own!"
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
I simply looked down at his hands on my shoulders, then raised my right hand, which was holding my phone. The screen was illuminated, showing an active digital recording app that had been streaming video directly to a secure cloud server since I stepped into the room.
Furthermore, a small, unobtrusive security camera mounted on my bookshelf—which I had installed five days ago—was flashing a steady blue light, recording every second of his physical assault.
"Connor," I said, my voice ice cold. "You have five seconds to take your hands off me before this live video stream automatically dispatches the police for felony assault and burglary."
Connor looked at the phone, then looked up at the camera on the shelf. The realization of what he had just done hit him like a physical blow.
He pulled his hands back as if my sweater were made of hot iron.
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"Touch me again, or enter my room without permission one more time," I whispered, stepping closer to him, "and I will add a criminal restraining order to your record. Let's see how many business schools accept a convicted domestic abuser."
Connor backed out of my room, stumbling over his own feet, horror and fear finally breaking through his arrogant mask.
