Derek held the microphone steady.
“You can leave,” he said, “but there’s one more thing your family needs to hear.”
Harold stopped walking.
Derek’s college roommate—the one who’d set up the sound system—pulled a white sheet tight between two barn posts.
The borrowed projector hummed to life.
Numbers filled the screen.
Three credit card accounts.
My name at the top of each one.
Below it, transaction after transaction, highlighted in yellow.
Derek spoke without looking at his notes.
He didn’t need them.
He’d memorized every line.
“Three credit cards opened in Wendy’s name without her knowledge or consent.”
“Total balance: $47,300.”
Gasps.
Real ones.
The kind you feel in your rib cage.
“None of this debt is hers.”
“Every transaction matches Courtney Foster’s social media posts.”
He pointed to the screen.
“Resort in Tulum, March.”
“Business class to the Maldives, November.”
“Camera equipment.”
“Nordstrom.”
“All charged to accounts Wendy never opened.”
Uncle Jean stood up halfway, then sat back down.
Aunt Carol put a hand over her mouth.
The woman who dabbed her eyes when Harold arrived now looked like she’d swallowed something sharp.
Harold’s voice cut through the silence.
“That’s family business.”
Derek turned to face him directly.
“It’s federal fraud.”
Diane was crying now, not the delicate, sympathetic kind she’d used on the phone with Ruth.
This was different.
Mascara streaking involuntarily.
Harold grabbed Diane’s arm and pulled her toward the gravel drive.
The aunt who’d texted me Shame on you, Wendy stood up and followed them, but not to comfort.
“Harold,” she said.
“Is this true?”
