My aunt Diane looked down at the floor. My stepmother, Sandra, adjusted her expensive glasses. My cousins pretended to check their phones. Nobody said a word.
I did.
My name is Natalie Crawford. I’m 32 years old and I’m an accountant. I work investigating financial fraud, but I never imagined that the dirtiest case I’d ever find would be inside my own family.
I looked at my grandmother. She wasn’t crying. That hurt me more than anything. She was just clutching her little black purse against her chest, as if trying to hold on to whatever small piece of dignity she had left.
“Dad, she paid for this trip,” I said.
“Stay out of it, Natalie,” he answered without looking at me. “This is an adult matter.”
