I drove to the Lake House that night in a blur of tears and high beams. It was our family sanctuary, a place of summer barbecues and laughter, now twisted into a crime scene in my mind.

I burst through the oak door. Gideon, my brother-in-law, was lounging on the leather couch, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. My sister, Serena, sat quietly beside him, staring at the floor like a scolded child.

“Where is my money?” I screamed, my voice raw.

Gideon didn’t flinch. He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking—a casual, arrogant sound. He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled.

“We needed it more than you.”

The words hit me like a physical slap. I staggered back. “Needed it more? My child is dying, Gideon! Eli is in the ICU!”

Serena finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “Sarah, don’t make this about you.”

“About me?” I laughed, a hysterical, broken sound. “You drained me dry! You stole my son’s lifeline! How could this not be about me?”