I heard someone whisper, “What is that?”
The next slide appeared.
A bank transfer confirmation. It was less than half of the court-ordered child support amount, and it was sent the same week as Thatcher’s text.
Then another message.
“I’m stretched thin. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”
The room began buzzing.
Sloane’s smile slowly disappeared. “Thatcher?”
Another slide replaced the last.
Wedding venue deposit: $18,750. Paid three days after that text.
Gasps rang out.
The screen kept changing.
Designer dress invoice for $5,000.
Honeymoon reservation in Bora Bora with a nonrefundable deposit.
All time-stamped within the same weeks and months when he told me he was struggling.
Thatcher went pale. “Turn it off,” he snapped at the DJ.
DJ Arlo didn’t move.
Because my mom, Beatrice, had handed him the flash drive and given him instructions on what to say and do long before Piper and I arrived that day. She told him it was a surprise for the whole family.
Sloane turned to Thatcher, her voice shaking. “Tell me that’s fake.”
“It’s taken out of context,” he said quickly.
“Out of context?” her father thundered, rising from his seat. “Those are financial records!”
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