Karma Wears a Badge

The red sports car gleams in my parents’ driveway like a brag. Sydney twirls around it, squealing. I kill the engine of my sensible Honda; my hands still shake after a 12-hour shift at the financial firm.

“Pretty, right?” she purrs, running a manicured hand along the hood. “Got a killer deal.”

“Where’d you get the money?” I ask. My phone buzzes again—probably another overdraft alert.

Mom and Dad hover behind her with champagne. “We used that family emergency fund you set up,” Mom says, wearing the look that always means don’t rock the boat.

The ground tilts. The “emergency fund” is my house down payment. Fifty thousand dollars. My entire savings.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sydney says. “You’re good with money. You’ll make it back. Family first, right?”

I open my banking app. Balance: $127.43.

“Your sister has interviews,” Dad adds. “She needs to make the right impression.”

“For which job—the third she’s quit this year?” I ask. Tears hover on cue. Mom folds Sydney into a hug. “Sophie, you’ve always been the strong one. Help her.”

“You’re right,” I say, pulling out my phone. “I am the strong one. And I’m the only name on every family account.”

I dial. “Hi, this is Sophie Price. Please close account 847392 immediately. Yes, I understand that will affect linked lines of credit. That’s the idea.”

Mom lunges for my phone. I step back. “You can’t—”

“I can. It’s my money.” I meet Sydney’s eyes. “Enjoy the car. Hope it was worth it.”

“Karma’s not patient,” I add, opening my Honda door. “In about seventy-two hours you’ll find out.”

Three days later, Bryce slides his laptop across a bar table. “System lag is three days. Then the dominoes fall. They’ve called you seventeen times.”

I sip a gin and tonic. “I’ve been cleaning up their messes my whole life.”

“And they’ve been dipping your linked accounts for years,” he says, tapping keys. A parade of $20s and $50s scrolls by—small, relentless.

Mom calls. Bryce nods. “Answer.”

“I closed every account,” I tell her. “Dad’s cards died because I stopped guaranteeing them. The emergency line on my savings is gone too.”

“Come talk,” she sobs. I agree.

At their house, Sydney’s mascara streaks like war paint. “They might repossess my car!”

“Like the bank repossessed my future,” I say.

“We only borrowed,” Mom protests. Dad reddens. I stand. “I’m done. I’m cutting all of you off.”

Outside, Bryce asks, “You okay?”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But I will be.”

They don’t stop. For three days they buzz my building. Eliza—best friend, realtor, hurricane—hands me coffee. “Repo got the car at dawn. I filmed.”

When the buzzer screams again, I go down. Sydney barrels through the door. “You ruined our family!”

“No,” I say. “You forged my name and called it love.”

A patrol car rolls up. “Harassment,” Eliza tells the officer. I step back into the lobby. “Next time I’ll add it to the identity-theft report.” They’re escorted off the property.

That night Bryce digs deeper. A spiderweb of transfers flowers on-screen: savings → an ancient college joint account with Mom → Dad’s cards → Sydney. Total: $300,000.

“That’s impossible,” I whisper.

“Numbers don’t lie,” he says. “And you’re listed as co-signer on the car.”

Eliza bursts in waving papers. “They used your name to refinance their condo last week.”

I call my boss, Garrett, at midnight. When I finish, he says, “Take tomorrow. File everything.”

Under fluorescent lights, Detective Rivera fans out my folders—forged signatures, ghost lines of credit, Sydney’s fake résumés with me as reference.

“This is serious,” she says. “Once we file, there’s no going back. Are you sure?”

Mom’s texts flash on my phone—your father’s BP is high; you’re heartless. I look up. “I’m sure.”

Garrett arrives with more evidence: job apps and verifications Sydney pushed using my name. Rivera’s pen flies. “We’ll have arrest warrants by morning.”

I step into the cool sunrise with Rivera’s card in my pocket. Sometimes karma wears a badge.

Court is smaller than I imagined. My parents look shrunken at the defense table. Sydney glowers from the gallery.

“Your Honor,” their lawyer says, breathless, “my clients change their plea to guilty.”

I read my victim impact statement. “The dollars I can count,” I tell the judge. “The cost of betrayal, I can’t. Turns out ‘I love you’ meant ‘I love what I can take from you.’”

Sydney pops up; the judge snaps her down. Sentence: five years for my parents, restitution ordered. A week later Sydney gets three for fraud and ID theft.

Reporters swarm the steps. “How does it feel to send your parents to prison?”

“I didn’t send them anywhere,” I say. “Their choices did.”

At work, Garrett smiles. “The board noticed. Senior Risk Analyst. We need your kind of integrity.”

That night I sign the purchase contract on a house I chose—and funded—myself. Eliza pops champagne. Bryce carries boxes. Detective Rivera drops by with an update: appeal denied. The prison calls; Mom whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you did it, or sorry you got caught?” Silence. I hang up.

“To freedom,” Eliza toasts.

“And to reconciling your statements,” Rivera adds with a wink.

We laugh—real, echoing, mine. Outside, a truck rumbles by hauling someone’s repossessed furniture. I don’t look. I’m busy deciding where the art will hang and drafting a talk for a financial-security conference—how to spot family fraud and walk out anyway.

They say home is where the heart is. For me, home is where I finally set my heart down so no one can spend it.

“Last box,” Bryce says.

“Good,” I smile. “Let’s go home.”