She had been sitting there earlier, arguing with a vendor, and she had left it behind. She never bothered with a passcode because she had spent her life believing she was completely untouchable.
A notification lit the screen. A group text titled Clark Girls.
The phone was unlocked.
I swiped it open.
The text chain loaded in a long cascade of blue and gray bubbles, and what I read hit my retinas like physical impact.
Three weeks before the wedding, my Aunt Renee — the woman who used to babysit me, who bought me ice cream when I was seven — had sent a message: What about that neon orange dress on the clearance rack? Get the plus size. It’s massive.
Diane replied within sixty seconds. Perfect. Buy it. It will make that dumpy freak look completely out of place next to the silk. I am not letting her dress better than my daughter today.
I scrolled up.
A message from Sloan: Make sure you tell the photographer to push her out of the frame early. If Daniel’s family asks why she’s hiding in the back, I’ll tell his uncle she has severe PTSD and hates having her picture taken. Let his family see how pathetic and crazy she is. They’ll never believe a word she says.
Below it, an image file. I tapped it.
My college diploma. NC State. Bachelor of Science in Civil and Environmental Engineering. But my name had been blurred out with photo editing software, and Sloan’s name had been typed directly over the university seal.
Just emailed this to Daniel’s uncle for the background check, she had written. Looks totally legit. The Whitlocks think I’m a genius.
