My family had chosen the stage.

They had rented the ballroom, and printed the gold-embossed invitations, and assembled the hundred guests whose good opinion was the only currency my mother had ever truly valued, all to celebrate a perfect family that did not exist, a baby whose paternity was a buried document, a unity built on my stolen money.

They had built the theater.

It seemed only right to let the play they had written reach the ending it had earned, on the stage they had chosen, in front of the audience they had invited.

That afternoon two texts arrived within an hour of each other.

The first, from Daniel: I have everything we need. The second, from my attorney: The District Attorney’s office has opened a formal investigation file.