"Mom, I just want to ask one thing. What if the person in those photos isn't me?"
My mother froze. Her gaze slid sideways toward Philippa.
The flash of panic in Philippa's eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that long-suffering, martyred expression she wore so well.
"If you say they're fake, then they're fake. As long as you and Aunt Bernice don't end up on bad terms, I'll apologize. I don't mind..."
I had to hand it to her. That little retreat-to-advance maneuver was beautifully played.
The relatives all wore the same expression: See, Philippa's the reasonable one. The looks they gave me grew even more disgusted.
That was exactly what Philippa wanted. To watch me be despised, be loathed, toppled from my pedestal straight into the mud.
But I refused to give her the satisfaction. If I couldn't clear my name today, I'd never be able to hold my head up again.
I picked up my shattered phone. It still worked, but the cracked screen had sliced my fingers open. Blood dripped freely.
My mother's pupils contracted sharply. She started to reach for my hand, then pulled back.
Something in my chest went cold.
I pulled up the photo and pointed out the inconsistencies.
"This looks like a private party, right? If the person in the photo is me, then Philippa, tell me—how did you get this?"
Philippa probably hadn't expected things to go this far today. Every other time, I'd scream and shout, she'd offer some fake apology, and the whole thing would fizzle out in a cloud of confusion.
She hadn't had time to write the next act of her script.
Her expression stiffened, and she stammered, "I... I was there hanging out, and I happened to snap it..."
"This angle doesn't look like a candid shot. Several of the men are looking directly at the camera. It's obviously posed."
"And if you took it, you're my cousin. I look perfectly sober in the photo. You snapping pictures that openly right in front of me? There's no way I wouldn't have noticed."
She panicked. Her fingers curled into a fist.
"Oh, wait, I remember now. I didn't take it. A friend sent it to me..."
"Which friend? Do I know her? Is she in this photo? Why did she send it to you? How do you two know each other?"
I didn't give her a second to breathe. Question after question, rapid-fire, until her mind went blank.
Gerald rushed in to smooth things over for her.
"You girls probably took it when you were hanging out together."
I laughed. Talk about walking right into it.
"Hanging out together? Then how did I end up being the escort?"
Gerald's mouth opened and closed. He sat there working his jaw for a good five seconds without producing a single word.
The relatives, hearing how full of holes this story was, started to waver.
"Yeah, that doesn't add up. She can't even explain where the photo came from. Could it really be fake?"
"Philippa's pulled this kind of thing on Monica before. More than once. I bet it's another one of her stunts."
The color drained from Philippa's face. She scrambled to explain.
"No, the photo is real! I didn't fabricate anything..."
"Boo-hoo..." She dissolved into tears. "Monica, you really don't remember that night? You said you'd show me a shortcut to easy money. When I got there, I found out what it really was. You wanted me to sit and drink with those men. I refused, and you hit me. I was terrified, so I ran. But I was scared those people would... would destroy you, so I took the photo before I left. I... I was worried about you..."
God, she deserved an Oscar.
I was ready to hand her the trophy myself.
My mother's arm swung hard and cracked across my face. She was shaking with fury.
"You animal! Dragging yourself through the gutter wasn't enough? You had to drag your own cousin down with you? You don't deserve to be called human. Get out of my house!"
I pressed my hand to my cheek. I didn't look at all those faces twisted with contempt and rage.
I pointed at the older man in the photo and said, "Philippa, do you know who your sugar daddy is? He's my boss."
The words landed, and the room plunged into an eerie silence.
