Chaos erupted. Grant slammed his hands on the table, his carefully constructed mask shattering into pure, animalistic panic. “She’s lying! She’s crazy! Make her stop!” he screamed.
“I have the banking routes,” I raised my voice, overpowering his screaming. “I have the forged signatures. And,” I paused, letting the silence stretch for a fraction of a second as I locked eyes with my father in the gallery, “I have an unedited audio recording from my hospital room at Walter Reed, proving that Warren Moore not only knew about the treason, but actively instructed his son on how to frame me to protect his own wealth.”
My mother screamed. It wasn’t a theatrical, weeping cry; it was a guttural wail of absolute, unvarnished terror. She turned to my father, hitting his chest with her fists. “What is she talking about?! Warren, what did you do?!”
My father couldn’t speak. His patrician face had turned the color of ash. His mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish. He looked at Grant, and in that single, horrific moment of realization, the unbreakable Moore family alliance devoured itself.
