“The recipient isn’t a clinic,” I said.

I opened the next document, a detailed transaction history from Lauren’s bank.

“It went to a personal account in Miami,” I said. “Registered under Megan’s name.”

Megan’s sobbing stopped instantly.

The room became so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

“That’s a lie,” my mother whispered, but she didn’t look at me.

She looked at Megan.

Megan was staring at the screen, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling.

“Megan?” my father asked.

His voice was different now, devoid of the soft, protective tone he always used with her.

“She’s making it up, Dad,” Megan said, her voice shaking. “She hates me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just stopped paying for your life.”

I clicked the mouse again, bringing up the next set of transfers.

These were larger, lump-sum payments.

“Ten thousand dollars on June twelfth,” I read aloud. “Twelve thousand on September fourth.”

My father’s hand began to shake on his knee.

“Those were the dates of her specialist consultations,” he said.

He looked at my mother, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.