Chapter 2
The silence stretched.
Thick enough to cut with a knife.
I squeezed Liam’s hand once, then let go.
Stepped toward the microphone.
My heels clicked loud on the stage floor.
Every eye followed me.
I could feel Beatrice’s smirk burning into my right side.
Chloe’s smug amusement.
The room’s collective expectation that I would cry. Run. Hide in the bathroom like I always had before.
I reached the mic.
Took a slow breath.
“Thank you, Aunt Beatrice,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Thank you, Chloe. For being so honest about what you really think of me.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Beatrice’s smile faltered, just a little.
“For three years,” I said, “I’ve let you talk to me like that. Let you steal from me. Let you treat me like a burden you were stuck with.”
I looked out over the room.
At the people who’d laughed. At the people who’d stared. At the people who’d known exactly how Beatrice treated me and said nothing.
“After the fire,” I said, “I thought I deserved it. I thought I was lucky anyone would even let me live under their roof, looking like this.”
My fingers brushed the scars on my jaw.
“I was wrong.”
Beatrice let out a sharp, barking laugh.
“Oh, here we go,” she said, loud enough for the mic to pick up. “The poor little orphan speech. Save it, Audrey. No one cares.”
I didn’t flinch.
“Actually,” I said, “I think everyone here cares very much about what I’m about to say.”
I nodded toward the back of the room.
A man in a dark suit stood up, briefcase in hand, and walked toward the stage.
Beatrice’s eyes went wide.
She recognized him.
He was the forensic accountant Liam had hired six months ago.
“This is Mr. Henderson,” I said. “He’s spent the last half a year going through every single one of Aunt Beatrice’s financial records.”
The room went quiet again.
Tense.
“Turns out,” I said, “the $80,000 in forged loans was just the start.”
I looked straight at Beatrice.
“You stole my mother’s $200,000 life insurance policy the week after she died,” I said. “Forged my signature on the payout forms. Spent it on a new car, Chloe’s private school, that diamond necklace around your neck.”
A collective gasp went up.
Beatrice’s hand flew to her throat.
“That’s a lie!” she shrieked. “You’re a lying, ungrateful little—”
“Mr. Henderson has the bank records,” I cut her off. “The signature analysis. The receipts. Every last penny traced to your accounts.”
Chloe stood up, face turning red.
“You’re just jealous!” she yelled. “Jealous that Mom loved me more! Jealous that I’m not a hideous freak like—”
Liam stepped forward.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t make a scene.
He just looked at Chloe with eyes so cold they could have frozen fire.
“Finish that sentence,” he said, quiet and dangerous, “and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
Chloe’s mouth snapped shut.
She sat back down, hard.
I turned back to the mic.
“The loans, the insurance money, the paychecks you stole from my jobs over five years,” I said. “It adds up to just over $327,000.”
Beatrice was shaking now.
Her face had gone from red to white to a sickly gray.
“You can’t prove any of this,” she whispered, but her voice was shaking. “No one will believe a scarred, crazy girl over me.”
I smiled.
“Actually,” I said, “I can prove something else too.”
May you like
I leaned in closer to the mic.
“Something about the night of the fire.”
