They were shaping the narrative. The money was gone. I was silent. So they labeled me unstable before I could speak. I showed the message to Aunt Eleanor as we reviewed the Evidence Folder.
“Classic,” she scoffed. “Gaslighting. If they paint you as crazy, they don’t have to admit they’re thieves.” She flipped through the statements. “$364,200,” she read. “Myra, you could’ve bought a house outright.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“You’re not destroying the family,” she said gently. “You’re just turning on the lights.” “The roaches are the ones who should be afraid.”
The Carver Estate loomed ahead—an imposing colonial mansion set on three acres of perfectly manicured lawn. I turned into the circular driveway, my palms damp against the steering wheel. At least forty cars were already parked. Everyone had come.
I wore a simple navy dress, high neckline, long sleeves hiding the bruises beneath. I wasn’t there to be Vanessa. I was there as Dr. Myra Whitmore. I walked inside with Lily and Lucas, their small hands clenched tightly in mine.
The living room buzzed with noise. Champagne flutes floated by on silver trays. A string quartet played Vivaldi in the corner. I saw them immediately. My parents stood near the fireplace.
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