Jason leaned back in his chair, relaxed and smug, already savoring a win. “Your work is finished,” he said. “We got what we wanted. Don’t look back at us now.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Dad actually chuckled. “Don’t act confused.”
Then Jason pulled my ATM card from his pocket and flicked it onto the table.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“You stole my card?”
“Borrowed,” he said. “And emptied the account.”
I lunged for it, but he moved faster, pressing it beneath his palm. “Relax. It’s family money anyway.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Mom let out a soft laugh, like I was a child making a scene. “It was a smart decision. You’ve been hoarding money while living under this roof.”
The room seemed to turn cold. “How much did you take?”
Jason shrugged lazily. “Everything.”
With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone, opened my banking app, and felt the blood drain from my face. Savings: $0.43. Checking: $12.11. The transaction history showed withdrawal after withdrawal from two ATMs across town. Then a wire transfer. He had drained nearly $38,000.
“That was my money for graduate school,” I whispered.
Jason stood up. He was taller than me, broader, and he knew it. “Not anymore.”
“Give it back.”