The hotel room in Chicago smells like recycled air and someone else’s perfume. I sit on the edge of the bed, iPad propped against the desk lamp, finger hovering over the screen. Part of me knows I shouldn’t watch this.

The notification from Jessica Reed, a college friend I haven’t spoken to in three years, read: Paige, you need to see this. The livestream buffers, circles spin, then the video sharpens. Wedding reception.

String lights wrapped around oak trees. Napa Valley vineyard in the background, all golden-hour glow and Instagram perfection. McKenzie Miller Patterson appears center screen in a strapless white dress, champagne flute raised high, grinning at the camera with that practiced intimacy influencers spend years perfecting.

“Hey, besties! Thanks for all the love and support, but this wedding is officially a toxic-free zone.”

Laughter erupts offscreen. She leans closer to the lens, voice dropping to a stage whisper meant for thousands.

“We’re scrubbing the old-gen energy from our lives. No more guilt trips. No more conditional love.”

The camera pans left.

Caleb appears in a rumpled suit, tie already loosened, raising his own glass. My brother. Twenty-seven years old and still incapable of buttoning a shirt properly.

“Yeah, the ATM is broken, but we got the cash out first.”

High fives all around. The wedding party roars approval. My breath catches once, sharp, like touching ice, then steadies.

I set the iPad down with deliberate care. My laptop sits on the desk, power cord wrapped neatly beside it. Password autofills.

Three clicks bring up a file I created two years ago during a sleepless night after Caleb’s third failed business venture. ASSET_REVOCATION_PROTOCOL.xlsx. Row after row of meticulous entries.

Condo guest residency agreement, signed November 2022. Ford Raptor registration, transferred to company fleet, December 2023. Credit card account number, authorized user status active since 2020.

Each asset Caleb uses, cataloged with dates and dollar amounts. Five years of enabling, documented in Times New Roman, size eleven font. My cursor drifts to the red highlighted cell at the bottom.

EXECUTE: Y / N. I hover there. Thirty seconds pass.

My hand trembles. The trembling pulls me backward thirteen years. I’m twenty-two, sitting in a hospital corridor that smells like disinfectant and the particular hopelessness of oncology war