“She was sick.”

“She wasn’t sick,” Lauren said.

Lauren reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of printed color photographs.

She dropped them on the table.

They scattered across the unsigned deed.

The top photo showed Megan on a beach.

She was wearing a bikini, holding a drink, and laughing.

She was standing on her own two feet, jumping in the air.

The date stamp at the bottom of the photo was from last July.

That was the month she told us she was confined to a specialized bed.

My father picked up the photo.

He held it close to his eyes, his glasses slipping down his nose.

The rain beat harder against the glass of the window.

A cold draft came through the frame, smelling of wet asphalt and lake water.

“This isn’t real,” my father said.

“It’s a digital trick.”

“I took it, Mr. Miller,” Lauren said.

“I was there.”

“We shared the apartment.”

“She told me her family was wealthy and paid for everything.”

“She said you guys insisted on sending her money so she wouldn’t have to work.”