My thumb stopped moving.
Daniel turned off the faucet.
“Claire?” he said.
I enlarged the video. The party room floor was scattered with cupcake wrappers. Purple punch had dried in a long sticky streak near the white sofa. A child ran past with frosting on both hands. Someone had taped a glitter banner directly to the walnut wall.
Then Vanessa appeared on camera and laughed.
“This place makes everything look classy,” she said.
My throat tightened, but my hands stayed still.
I didn’t call her.
I called the front desk.
At 6:09 p.m., Marcus, the evening manager, answered in his careful building voice. I asked who had signed the room release. Paper rustled. A keyboard clicked.
Then he went quiet.
“Mrs. Hale,” he said, “it shows your signature.”
Daniel stepped closer.
I asked Marcus to send me a photo.
The file landed one minute later. My name sat at the bottom of the waiver in a slanted fake script. Beside it was a $750 damage-deposit authorization using the card I had once lent Vanessa for a school fundraiser she “forgot” to repay.
The room suddenly felt colder.
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