I pressed the remote again, and the video disappeared, replaced by a screenshot of a text message thread.

The name at the top of the messages was Megan’s, and the words on the screen began with a discussion about a hidden bank account.

“That is edited,” Megan whispered, her voice cracking.

She pulled her wool cardigan tighter around her shoulders, though the apartment was warm.

“Someone altered that video to make me look bad.”

“Lauren didn’t edit anything, Megan,” I said.

“She lived with you for ten months while you told Mom and Dad you were too sick to walk to the kitchen.”

I tapped the screen of my phone, zooming in on the first text block.

The text message from Megan’s number read: *My parents just sent another grand for my ‘treatments.’ I’m transferring eight hundred of it to the high-yield account today. Don’t tell anyone.*

My father leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees.

His knuckles were thick and scarred from forty years of factory work.

“What treatments?” my father asked.

His voice was very quiet.

“The physical therapy,” I said.