Chapter 6 - The Scholarship Someone Stole From Me
I had worked fourteen-hour shifts to pay rent while a scholarship intended for me sat hidden inside a stolen trust.
That was the thought I couldn't escape.
My father had sold his car to pay for my lessons.
Then the studio.
Then nearly everything he owned.
When he became ill, I abandoned competitive dancing and took whatever work I could find.
I'd spent years believing life had simply been unfair.
Now it appeared someone had engineered part of that unfairness.
"How much?" I asked.
George looked at Vincent.
Then back at me.
"The original scholarship was two hundred thousand dollars."
My chest tightened.
Two hundred thousand.
Enough to keep Dad's studio open.
Enough to pay for the treatment he needed.
Enough to let me finish the dance education I'd dreamed about.
I sat down.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Vincent approached slowly.
"Katie."
I looked up.
"Don't."
He stopped.
"I wasn't going to offer excuses."
"Good."
My voice trembled.
"Because I don't want to hear how complicated your business was."
He nodded.
"You're right."
I looked toward the dusty mirrors.
"Dad died thinking he'd failed me."
My throat closed.
"He apologized for losing the studio. He apologized for the medical bills. He apologized because I had to quit dancing."
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
"He didn't know someone had stolen the future he'd worked so hard to give me."
Vincent lowered his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
I laughed bitterly.
"Do you know how many times wealthy men have said that to me?"
He didn't answer.
I stood.
"Sorry doesn't pay hospital bills."
"No," Vincent said quietly. "It doesn't."
For the first time, he seemed to understand that an apology wasn't a solution.
The investigator returned with another discovery.
The trust documents had been altered several times.
But the original agreement was still referenced in municipal property records.
Michael Young had purchased a small building on Wabash Avenue through the trust.
The same building we were standing inside.
I stared.
"Are you saying Dad owned this studio?"
The investigator nodded cautiously.
"His ownership interest appears to have been improperly transferred. The original records may support a legal claim."
My heart pounded.
"But the building was sold."
"That sale may be challenged."
Vincent looked toward George.
"Who authorized the transfer?"
George hesitated.
"Levi."
Of course.
Then the investigator opened the archived purchase records.
A name appeared beside Levi's signature.
EVELYN GRAHAM.
Vincent went completely still.
"My mother?"
I looked at him.
He swallowed.
"She died eight years ago."
The investigator examined the document.
Then frowned.
"Mr. Graham, the authorization was dated three years after your mother's death."
Silence.
Somebody had forged the signature of a dead woman.
Then the investigator opened the associated correspondence.
One message had been sent from Levi's private office.
It read:
Keep the Young girl employed at the Continental. She must never discover the studio still belongs to her.
I stared at the screen.
For years, I'd believed my job at the club was the only lucky break I'd received.
Now I understood.
I'd never been lucky.
May you like
I'd been kept close enough to watch.
And the man who controlled my shifts had known exactly who I was from the day he hired me.
