THE MORNING I discovered my brother had stolen my trust fund was absolutely beautiful.

It was the beginning of August, about two weeks or so before the start of school. If I was a smart girl, I'd be getting ready for it by buying books, pulling up my syllabi, and getting ahead on my reading.

While I am a smart girl, I was not going to be doing any of that. What I was going to be doing was going to the beach. That was the plan, anyway.

In fact, I was so sure that I was going to the beach that I already had my swimsuit on. The only thing I needed to do was to get up and go. Unfortunately, I'm always at war between the desire to go and do something and the actual getting up and doing it. Life requires so much effort. It makes me very tired.

As it was, I was sitting on the balcony of my South Bend apartment, drinking coffee, and musing over my toes. They looked like crap. Specifically, I was musing over when I should schedule a pedicure appointment. Should I get a pedicure before I went to the beach or after I went to the beach? If I went to the beach before, everyone would see the grossness of my feet. If I went to the beach afterwards, I ran the risk of ruining the paint job. I sighed, yawned, and stretched. These first world problems could be so vexing.

Unfortunately, a call from my landlord interrupted my vexatious musings. My landlord is an empty- nester who has made me her surrogate daughter, so it's not unusual for her to call and check in with me. It is, however, unusual for her to call and ask me about rent.

"I'm calling because I'm concerned," she told me, her voice shaking with just a scootch of nervousness. "It's only the 6th, so you're not very late, but you know, I usually get a rent check from you well before the first." She laughed uncomfortably. "Just want to make sure you hadn't forgotten."

I was horrified. My bills were never late. So I profusely apologized, got up off my ass and immediately ran down to the apartment office. I had the cash; I'm the paranoid type who stashes cash around the house like a squirrel stashes nuts. The problem was where was the check? She should have gotten a check from my trust several days earlier.

Once she got paid, she was all happy again and didn't even charge me the late fee. "I know you, Siobhan," she said while giving me a big hug, "I know you're good for it, dear."

I poured myself a cup of coffee from the 20-year yellowed and grunge crusted Mr. Coffeemaker and sat down across the table from her. "So you didn't get a check from the trust at all?"

She shook her head. "I'm sure it will come any day now. The mail these days, it can be so slow. I mean, I just got a postcard from my Jenny, and she sent it three weeks ago."

Jenny was my landlord's daughter, a small town beauty queen who got on with a major air carrier as a flight attendant. For some reason, my landlord thought that this was the most awesome job ever and just oozed with pride over all her travels. As for me, I didn't really see the charm, but hey, to each their own.

"Where's she at this time?" I asked as I doused my coffee with extra cream to mask the burnt taste.

She handed me the postcard. "Hong Kong. Look at those stamps." She sighed and looked sad for a moment. My landlord desperately missed her daughter. If I didn't get her off the topic, she'd start crying.

I handed it back to her. "When's she coming home?"

"A couple of weeks." She smiled at the thought and patted me on the arm. "She told me she'd like to get together with you when she comes home."

"Cool. I would love to hang with her. She's a lot of fun." And she was. The girl had a liver like an Englishman. She could drink me under the table, and I'm Irish, for God's sake.

"She is," my landlord sniffed. "My baby girl."

Oh Lord. She was going to start crying if I didn't change the subject fast. So I asked her about my crazy neighbor who kept trying to walk his cats. That distracted her enough to start gossiping about all my other crazy neighbors. I ended up sitting with for around another fifteen minutes or so, gagging down rancid coffee and laughing at her worldview until she was thoroughly cheered up. I'm fond of my landlord; I hate seeing her upset.

By the time I left the office, I had forgotten the reason I went over there in the first place. My mind was back on laying out and my pedicure problem. If I hadn't picked up my mail, I might not have discovered the extent of my financial problems until the lights literally went out.

Stuffed between all the Bed Bath and Beyond circulars and Papa John's welcome back to campus coupons were a stack of final notices from all my utilities threatening disconnection if they weren't paid immediately. I sat down heavily on my couch and drank the remainder of my cold coffee. This was significantly worse than I thought. So much for going to the beach.

It was, however, the bursar bill that pushed me over the edge. According to the bursar, I owed Notre Dame almost $50,000, and if that bill didn't get paid in full within the week, the school would drop my entire schedule. That's when I started to freak out and hyperventilate.

Now, at that point, I hadn't started suspecting my brother. My first thought was that the Feds must have frozen my family's assets. My family has an uneasy relationship with the Federal Government that every now and then gets a little heated.

So I calmed myself down and did the responsible thing; I called my family's Accounting Center for more information. My brother only directs my trust; it's the Accounting Center that allocates the funds. They would know exactly where the glitch was, and they would be the ones to fix it.

"McIver Group Accounting Center. Greg McIver speaking."

"Hi Greg. This is Siobhan McIver, account number 19961031. I'm checking on the status of my trust."

A long pause. "I can't seem to find you. What's your patronym?"

"FitzEdward."

"What number?"

"Six."

"Okay...and there you are." He paused. "Siobhan, you say you're calling about a trust? There is no trust account listed under your name."

I dropped the phone. In that trust was about 15 million dollars. As trusts go, it's not a lot of money, but it's enough to live comfortably off the interest and investments. There had to be a mistake. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"Greg, I should have a trust fund administered by my brother, Patrick McIver, in the sum of 15 million dollars, give or take."

"What was the name of the trust administrator?"

"Patrick McIver. Patronym FitzEdward. Number 2."

"Oh...wait. Here it is, or well, it was. Are you sure it was 15 million?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Siobhan, the notes say that the trust was only for 1.5 million, and that as of June of this year, the trust was depleted of all funds. There is no more trust."

Once again, the phone slide out of my hand and onto the floor.

That was crap. 1.5 million? Complete crap. I knew how much I had; I had 15 million. There had been an accounting a few years back when Patrick's assistant had explained the whole process to me. God. Patrick had actually gone ahead and done it. The bastard had stolen my money.

I picked up the phone, hung up on Greg, and started screaming, Because when your brother steals 15 million dollars, you need to scream.

After I got through with my little fit, I pulled myself together, washed my face, and sat down to make some investigatory phone calls. First, I called my brother Aidan. Unfortunately, he was in a meeting. Next, I called my brother Collin, who was unavailable due to a client conference. Last I called my brother Sean, but he was in a business meeting in Los Angeles.

I did not try to call Patrick. He doesn't like to directly communicate with me.

I tried a few more relatives, some cousins and a few uncles, but all I got was the same run around. Whatever was going on had caused the Family to circle the wagons in good and tight. If I wanted my money back, I would need to go home, find Patrick, and have a face to face discussion.

Of course, face to face discussions with Patrick usually resulted in broken bones and blood. Patrick and I have an unstable and volatile relationship that can get downright hostile. Like the last time we had a heart to heart, I set his car on fire. Why? I don't remember. He did something to piss me off.

Anyway, meeting up with Patrick meant going to the Home Office of my family's law firm, located in the tiny little town of McIver, Iowa. To get there, I could either fly or drive. Of the two, flying was certainly the faster and more convenient. It's a short hop, about a half an hour gate to gate. If I caught the noon flight out of O'Hare I could be there before 2:00 pm.

The only downside to this was that I would lose the element of surprise. The family keeps track of everyone who flies in and out of McIver. If they didn't want to talk to me on the phone, chances are they didn't want to talk to me in person. I could see me arriving at the Home Office only to be told that nobody was available and to leave a contact number for them to get back to me at their own discretion.

So I was driving. The only problem with me driving was the fact that my 20 something year old Honda Civic was on its last legs. Yes, even though I'm a trust fund brat, I drive a POS. I'm kind of into the whole dichotomy of being a rich girl that drives a piece of crap car. I considered renting a car for the drive, but then there's all that paperwork and shit. It was just as easy to buy one.

More importantly, since I strongly believed that Patrick had stolen my money, I felt it was in the interest of fair play and substantial justice that Patrick buy me a car as an apology. Specifically, I felt that he should buy me a Porsche. That would be a fine apology that I could accept in all sincerity.

Of course Patrick wouldn't do that under his own volition. Patrick can be stubborn and unable to find it in his heart to appropriately apologize. Thus, I would have to help him out a bit. For times like these, I have an American Express card I procured in his name that I could use to help him apologize to me by buying me a Porsche.

Some may call this identity theft. I concede that I procured this card by using his name and social security number without his express permission. If you were to strictly apply the law of identity theft to my actions, I suppose that I could be found guilty. But the way I see it is that he's my guardian and he should care about my financial well being. I mean, he could have intended to procure for me an American Express, but had just not gotten around to it. I'm helping him out. He's really busy.

Besides, I'm not stealing from the poor. If I am stealing - which is a stretch, because, hello, my 15 million? - I'm stealing from a filthy rich one percenter asshole lawyer who won't even know I stole it from him in the first place.

Finally, I'm helping him by placing in front of him an opportunity to cleanse his Karma. He can choose to get all pissed off, or he can buy me a $100,000 Porsche and I won't demand an accounting and potentially get him for grand larceny. The scales of justice, they do balance.

So I took a black American Express in the name of Patrick McIver, along with $5,000 in cash I had stored in a hole I carved out in my hardwood floor, and packed an overnight bag because it was unlikely I'd make it home until the next morning. Then I changed my clothes into a ridiculously sexy dress - I would prefer the dealership pay more attention to my breasts than to my credit - and accessorized it with a pair of closed toe Louboutins. No way I'd be displaying my toes until they were adequately serviced.

Ready to do battle, I drove my POS to the South Shore Amtrak station and caught the 10 am for downtown Chicago by the skin of my teeth. There's a Porsche dealership on the Gold Coast that my family uses for all its Porsche needs.

After I got on the train, I wondered if I should have brought a firearm along with. I mean, you never know when you might need a firearm. Especially when you're dealing with Patrick and 15 million missing dollars.

_____ * _____ * _____ * _____ * _____

So here it is... version 1. The first, the unedited, and the original. For first time readers, welcome! The cookies and coffee are fresh. Help yourself and stay a while. To all you awesome loyal readers, thank you all so much. I am so flattered that you like the story. 

Again, thank you all so much for taking time to read Siobhan's story! Please let me know what you think... and if you liked it, please remember to vote. Your votes are what keeps me going!

©Copyright Liz Charnes May 2018

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