My phone buzzed once more, a picture message arriving from an unknown number.

It was Lauren again.

The image was a screenshot of a bank statement Megan had accidentally left on their shared desk last year, showing thousands of dollars flowing in from our parents’ joint account.

Beneath it, Lauren wrote: “She’s been using three different aliases for her apartment leases.”

I stared at the names on the screen, a slow realization building in my chest.

This wasn’t just a family dispute anymore.

This was systemic fraud.

I sat back on the floor, surrounded by folders of yellowed receipts and electrical diagrams.

The radiator in the corner began to hiss, clanking against the floorboards as the heat kicked on.

I looked at the text message from my father again, his words about family hanging over me like a weight.

“We’re all she has.”

They had no idea.

If I told them the truth without absolute, undeniable proof, they would think I was simply being jealous and cruel.

My mother would accuse me of trying to tear the family apart.