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Chapter 4 – The crimes of my parents

Harper

I was 16 years old when life burst the bubble where I was living in. It showed me the reality outside the mansions I lived in and the schools I attended.

My family was a business dynasty that had been investing and managing businesses for generations. My grandfather, a visionary entrepreneur, founded the company over 50 years ago. He started with a small manufacturing company and, through hard work and dedication, expanded it into a multi-million dollar holding company that operates in a variety of sectors of the economy.

Once, the company was successful and profitable, and it had provided my family with a life of comfort and prosperity. My father, who was older and more ambitious than my uncle, took control of the company after my grandfather's death. He was a strong and determined leader who had driven the company's growth along the years.

My mother, a successful lawyer, had always been an important ally of my father. She was a smart and perceptive woman who has helped the company navigate through difficult times. She was also a tireless advocate for the family's interests.

A successful father and a competitive mother, that's how I saw my parents. That's how I was raised, innocent that our luxury was the result of hard work. But life came, and in the worst way, I learned that not everything was as it seemed.

I remember that day: My mother came to pick me up from school earlier than usual. I wasn't expecting her to come because I was already staying with my aunt and uncle on weekdays. She was nervous.

“Daughter, listen carefully,” she told me as soon as I got into the car. “I need you to pack your bags when we get home because we must take a trip out of the country.”

“What do you mean? I have school lectures this week.”

“Do not argue and do not ask questions! The fewer things you know, the better.”

When I look back, I see that all the bad days in my life have been rainy days. Maybe that is why even today, on rainy nights, I don't feel at ease.

The expression on my mother's face was somber, her forehead furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white as she navigated the winding, rain-slicked road. Our car's headlights sliced through the thick fog that enveloped us, casting eerie shadows that danced across the trees that lined the roadside. The speedometer needle hovered dangerously close to the red line, but my mother seemed oblivious to the danger, her eyes fixed on the road ahead with an intensity that was almost frightening.

My attempts to engage her in conversation were met with silence. She ignored my questions and complaints, her focus unwavering as she drove through the treacherous conditions. The silence in the car was palpable, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the occasional rumble of the engine as we climbed a steep incline.

I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease as I observed my mother's uncharacteristic behavior. Her usual calm and collected demeanor had been replaced by a steely determination that bordered on obsession. I wondered what could have caused such a drastic change in her, what was driving her to push herself and the car to the limit.

When I got home, I noticed that some of the servants had already started to pack my bags. My mother rushed into her room to pack my father's things. She yelled at the servants to hurry. I had never seen my mother raise her voice to anyone before. Even though I was scared, I did what she asked me to do. I had just finished gathering my things when she appeared in the doorway of my room and handed me a jewelry box.

"This was your grandmother's jewelry box. Take care of it as if it were your own life!"

With a solemn expression, my mother handed me a small, intricately carved wooden box. Its surface was decorated with delicate floral patterns, each line etched with precision and care. The brass hinges gleamed faintly in the dim light, hinting at the treasures inside. I gently cradled the box in my hands, feeling its smooth, cool surface against my palms. I could almost feel the weight of memories and stories it held, whispered tales of my grandmother's grace and elegance.

"The car is waiting for you, hurry up! During the trip you can have a look at the rich jewelry!" My mother screamed at me.

With a heavy heart, I placed the jewelry box in my bag, its light weight a constant reminder of the responsibility I now carried. As I walked to the waiting car, I couldn't shake the feeling that my grandmother's spirit was with me, her presence palpable with every step I took.

When I was close enough to the car, I first saw my father. His face was also somber. He was on the phone and didn't see me approaching. So, I listened:

"Yes, I know I screwed everything up! We're going to be arrested; I know the press is going to report it any minute, and the Feds are going to show up here! We'll be on our way out of the country, of course!" Desperation and resignation laced my father's voice, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

My mind reeled, trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation. My father's words echoed in my ears, painting a picture of impending chaos and upheaval. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, each beat adding to the fear that gripped me.

"Daughter, hurry and get in the car!" His voice was laced with urgency, his eyes darting around nervously.

"What do you mean, we're fleeing the country and you're going to be arrested?" I could barely form the words, my voice shaking with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"Not now, Harper! We'll talk about this later. Get in the car now!" His tone was firm and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

I obeyed, my mind still struggling to grasp the reality of the situation. As I slid into the car, a feeling of dread washed over me. Something was terribly wrong and the tension in the air was palpable.

My eyes darted between my father and the driver of the car, who seemed to sense our distress. I quickly grabbed my backpack and ran out of the gate, my legs carrying me like they were on autopilot.

Luckily, an empty taxi was passing by, and I flagged it down. Desperate to escape the impending chaos, I made up a story about feeling unwell and needing urgent medical attention. The driver, caught off guard by my urgency, agreed to my request and accelerated his vehicle to match the racing pace of my heartbeat.

The car sped through the streets, leaving a trail of unanswered questions and mounting fear. I couldn't shake the feeling that everything I had known, everything I had considered stable and secure, was crumbling around me.

When I reached downtown, I asked the taxi driver to stop. I was near the home of my aunt and uncle. As soon as I got there, my aunt and uncle came up to me and asked me if I was all right and if it was my parents who had sent me to their house. I told them the truth and I told them that I was very scared. My uncle gave me a big hug and assured me not to worry, that everything would be all right.

But of course, it didn't end well at all.

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