Then Celeste’s desk.
He hated searching it.
Did it anyway.
Second drawer.
Receipts.
A pawn shop slip.
His stomach dropped.
CAMERA — $185.
Seller: C. Brooks.
Aaron held the paper.
He sat down.
For several seconds he could not move.
Danielle’s mother had spent four hundred dollars on that camera.
Not from the trust.
Her own money.
Celeste had taken it from Nia.
Sold it.
For one hundred eighty-five dollars.
Why?
Aaron searched more.
Another pawn receipt.
A gold bracelet.
Nia owned no gold bracelet.
Then he remembered Danielle’s charm bracelet.
Marjorie gave it to Nia last Christmas.
Nia had not worn it recently.
He searched the safe.
Gone.
Pawned.
Six hundred dollars.
Aaron felt physically ill.
He photographed everything.
Put the documents back.
Then returned upstairs.
Nia saw his face.
“What?”
“Did Celeste take Mom’s bracelet too?”
Nia became very still.
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That it needed fixing.”
Aaron nodded.
“When?”
“January.”
Eight months.
“I’m going to get it back.”
Nia’s eyes widened.
“You can?”
“Yes.”
He did not know whether that was true.
He promised anyway.
Because some promises were worth fighting to make true.
Nia whispered:
“Don’t tell Celeste I told you.”
Aaron’s chest broke open.
He moved closer.
“Why?”
“She’ll say I’m trying to make you hate her.”
He sat beside his daughter.
“Nia.”
She looked up.
“No adult gets to tell you that telling the truth is the same as making someone hate them.”
“If something is true, you can tell me.”
“Even if it makes me sad.”
“Even if it makes me angry.”
“Even if it changes things.”
She began crying.
Aaron opened his arms.
Nia crawled into them.
He held her.
For the first time since Danielle died, Aaron felt he had failed a promise directly connected to her.
You will always be taken care of.
He had assumed money could help guarantee that.
He had protected an account.
Built legal walls.
Created alerts.
Reviewed statements.
And somehow missed the fact that protection was not only financial.
A trust document could not notice a child going quiet at dinner.
A bank could not ask why one girl’s shoes were falling apart while everybody else carried new boxes.
Paper could protect assets.
People had to protect children.
Aaron held Nia tighter.
“I’m sorry.”
She cried into his shirt.
“For what?”
“For not seeing.”
Nia pulled back.
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
Aaron wiped her tears gently.
“You don’t have to make it okay for me.”
That was the first thing the family therapist would later tell him he got right.
The next morning, Aaron called Danielle’s trust attorney.
Rebecca Sloan answered from Cleveland.
She had drafted the trust.
She had attended Danielle’s funeral.