Heat, Dust, and Debt

Tarek confronts his step-sister about a troubling financial discovery, exposing simmering resentments and a cynical view of Canada's economic future, all under the oppressive summer heat.

"So, this came in the mail," Tarek said, the words feeling heavy and flat in the stifling heat. He slid the crinkled envelope, an official-looking thing from the Dominion Bank of Canada, across the chipped Formica table. Olivia, perched on a stool, scrolling through her phone with her knees drawn up, barely glanced up. A bead of sweat traced a path down Tarek's temple, tickling his jaw.

"What is it? Another late notice for the hydro bill?" she mumbled, her voice rough, a low thrum like the fridge. She was wearing one of his old band t-shirts, stretched thin across her shoulders. The fabric clung to her, damp.

"No. This is… different. It's addressed to Dad. Or, well, it was. And it's not a bill," Tarek clarified, pushing the envelope closer with a cautious fingertip. The paper felt slightly greasy, like everything else in this kitchen. His stomach did a slow roll. He'd found it tucked under a stack of old newspapers in the living room, almost hidden. It felt deliberate.

Olivia finally lowered her phone, her eyes, usually quick and dismissive, narrowed on the document. Her brows, dark against her pale forehead, drew together. "What, then? Did our dead stepfather suddenly win the lottery?" The sarcasm was thick, a coping mechanism they both used, though for different battles.

"It's an account statement," Tarek said, watching her face carefully. "From an account I didn't know about. An unregistered one. And it shows… a lot of money moved. Recently. Like, after he passed. Not by the executor." He didn't say the specific amount, not yet. He wanted to see her reaction first, gauge the flicker of guilt or confusion. There was only a brief flash of something, too quick to name, before her usual defence mechanisms clicked into place.

"Oh, please. You think he had some secret hoard? Dad barely kept his socks paired," Olivia scoffed, but her gaze lingered on the figures peeking out from the partially torn envelope. The casualness felt rehearsed. "Probably just some bureaucratic mess, Tarek. The banks in this country are a joke. By 2025, they'll be charging you for breathing too heavily in front of an ATM."

He pushed the full statement across. Her eyes scanned it, and a muscle in her jaw twitched. "This is… odd," she admitted, her voice losing some of its edge. "But I don't know anything about it. Honest. Why are you looking through Dad's old stuff anyway?"

"Because bills keep piling up, and Mrs. Davison from downstairs keeps asking about the association fees, and this place is going to fall apart around us, and I found it while looking for something, anything, to keep us from drowning," Tarek snapped, the words coming out hotter than the room. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the grit of stale sweat. "We're barely keeping our heads above water, Olivia. And then I see this. A sum that could solve everything. Or at least buy us a year of not constantly dreading the mail."

He watched the small fan on the counter oscillate, pushing warm air around in lazy circles. It barely stirred the curtains. Tarek thought about the rent, the grocery prices that kept climbing like a relentless tide, the endless stream of articles predicting the collapse of the middle class in Canada. It was all so bleak. So utterly, fundamentally broken. And people just kept posting inspirational quotes on social media, pretending grit and 'manifesting' would fix structural rot. He felt a bitter laugh bubble up, then swallowed it. It wouldn't help.

### A Summer of Rot and Resentment

"It's not like Dad was some financial wizard, Tarek. He left us this place, sure, but it's got more cracks than a Toronto sidewalk. And the mortgage is a death trap," Olivia argued, waving a hand dismissively. "Don't get your hopes up. It's probably a mistake. You know how banks are. Automated errors. Probably some glitch in their archaic systems. Everything's falling apart, isn't it? The healthcare, the housing, the idea that hard work actually pays off. Who cares about some old bank statement? It's all rigged anyway."

"It's not a glitch, Olivia. It's a transfer. To an account at a different branch, under a different name, but with *his* last name. Just… slightly altered. And the signature looks like his, but it's… too neat. Too perfect, if that makes sense. Like someone practised," Tarek insisted, leaning forward, trying to catch her eye. He felt a tremor of anger. Was she lying to him? Or was she genuinely ignorant? He wanted to believe the latter, but the cynical voice in his head, the one sharpened by years of watching politicians and corporations twist truths, whispered otherwise.

"So what? People move money around. Maybe he had a mistress. Or a secret gambling habit. I wouldn't put it past him," Olivia muttered, though her bravado seemed to be deflating, like an old inflatable pool toy. She picked at a loose thread on his t-shirt. The air hung heavy, the only sound the persistent, struggling hum of the fridge.

"A mistress wouldn't get a transfer *after* he died. And certainly not one that bypasses the will. Because you and I both know his will was pretty explicit: everything split, minus a small endowment for the animal shelter. No secret accounts, no hidden beneficiaries. I read it, Olivia. You did too. Remember the lawyer? That tight-lipped old bat who looked at us like we were already spending his money?"

She shrugged, a small, tight movement. "Maybe she missed something. Lawyers are expensive, Tarek. Maybe he just… tried to protect something. From us. From the 'state of the world,' as he'd always say, before launching into a three-hour tirade about the federal budget."

---

Tarek walked to the window, pushing aside the threadbare curtains. Down below, the street shimmered in the heat. A delivery drone buzzed past, a brief, mechanical interruption in the suffocating stillness. He wondered what kind of Canadian future it was delivering. More overpriced goods? Another streaming service? He felt like he was constantly teetering on the edge of a great, indifferent abyss. The optimism of his parents' generation, their belief in linear progress, felt like a cruel joke now. Every news headline was a punch to the gut: housing affordability cratering, climate targets missed, mental health crisis escalating. You had to be a fool or a millionaire to believe in Canada anymore, at least in the way they’d described it in school. His generation was inheriting a mess, a debt, and a constant low hum of anxiety.

"He wasn't protecting it from us, Olivia. He was protecting it for us. Or he would have. This isn't like him. Not the way this money moved. This is… calculated. And it happened when you were supposedly clearing out his office, after I’d already gone back to school for the winter semester," Tarek said, turning back to face her. His voice was calm, almost journalistic, as if he were reporting a fact, not accusing his sister. He'd learned to detach, to observe. It made the bitter pill of reality easier to swallow, sometimes.

Olivia flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible jerk of her shoulders. She finally met his gaze, and for a fleeting second, he saw something there: a flicker of fear, a raw vulnerability usually hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference. "What are you implying? That I… that I forged something? That I stole from him? From *us*?"

Her voice was tight, thin. Her lips pressed into a hard line. "He mentioned something once, okay? Before… before everything. Said there was something in the will, something the lawyer might overlook. A 'fail-safe' he called it. For a rainy day. But he never said what. And I never found anything. Just boxes and boxes of old tax documents and his ridiculously detailed hockey memorabilia collection."

"A fail-safe? What kind of fail-safe gets transferred out of the estate?" Tarek pressed, his mind racing. This was new. This was a piece of the puzzle he hadn't accounted for. "Did he say where it would be? What it looked like?"

"He just said, 'Look where I always keep my secrets.' Which is helpful, right? The man had more secrets than a government minister. And he told me not to tell you, because you'd 'overthink it'." Olivia looked away, fiddling with a loose thread on her t-shirt, her eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point. Her breathing was shallow, quick. The bantering tone was gone, replaced by a strained urgency.

Tarek knew his stepfather. 'Look where I always keep my secrets.' The phrase echoed in his mind, sharp and cold. He glanced around the kitchen, then his eyes snagged on the old, dusty cookbook shelf tucked away in a shadowed corner, next to the back door. His stepfather had only ever used one cookbook, a tattered, coffee-stained copy of a classic French cuisine guide. But behind it, usually obscured, was a small, empty space. And now, just barely visible, was a corner of something white, tucked deep within the recess.

He felt a sudden, electric jolt, a cold dread despite the heat. It wasn't about the money anymore. It was about the lie, the intricate web of deception that seemed to be unraveling around them, a chilling testament to the rot beneath their seemingly ordinary lives. The hum of the fridge seemed to grow louder, more insistent, a premonition.