She looked at my suitcase.
Then at my cheek.
Then back at me.
“Where is he?”
“I left.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“Jessica.”
“I only want to talk.”
“You once broke a blender because it insulted you.”
“It caught fire.”
“You threw it from a balcony.”
“It had already chosen violence.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
It turned into a sob before it finished.
Jessica wrapped both arms around me beside the bus stop.
I buried my face against her shoulder and finally allowed the grief to come.
It was not only grief for Brandon.
It was grief for my own judgment.
For the woman I had been the night before.
For my parents dancing beneath lights they had helped pay for.
For every warning I had explained away.
Jessica held me until my breathing steadied.
Then she loaded my suitcase into her trunk.
“You’re staying with me,” she said.
“I don’t want to create trouble.”
“You are trouble. But you’re my trouble.”
Her apartment sat above a bakery in a narrow building near the university district. By early afternoon, the rooms smelled of warm sugar and cinnamon.
Jessica made coffee I did not drink and scrambled eggs I could not swallow.
I showered for nearly an hour.
No matter how hard I washed, I could still smell the dishcloth.
When I emerged wearing one of Jessica’s oversized T-shirts, she had placed my phone inside a glass bowl on the kitchen table.
“It has been vibrating nonstop,” she said. “I considered drowning it.”
There were thirty-two missed calls.
Eleven from unknown numbers.
Messages crowded the screen.
Brandon: Stop making this worse.
Brenda: Your behavior is shameful.
Patrick: Return what does not belong to you.
Brandon: We need to discuss the account.
Brandon: Answer me immediately.
Brandon: My father is calling the police.
I read the last three messages twice.
Jessica watched my face.
“What account?”
“The wedding fund.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred and fifty thousand.”
Her eyes widened.
“Dollars?”
“The equivalent in dollars, yes.”
“And whose name is on the account?”
“Mine.”
“Only yours?”
“Yes.”
She sat across from me.
“Melanie, why are they asking about it six hours after you leave?”
I had no answer.
Another message arrived.
This one from Brenda.
You stole from this family. We are giving you one hour to return every cent before we report you.
I felt the first tremor of fear move through my stomach.
Not because I had stolen anything.
Because their certainty suggested they believed they had a claim I did not understand.
I opened the banking application.
The balance appeared exactly as expected.
$650,000.
No withdrawals.
No pending transfers.
I clicked through the transaction history.
My parents’ deposit had arrived three days earlier.
$200,000.
Documented.
Cleared.
The other transfer appeared beneath it.
$450,000.
The sender was listed as BPF Holdings.
I frowned.
Jessica leaned closer.
“What is BPF Holdings?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought the money came from Brandon’s parents.”
“So did I.”
I searched the account name online.