The truth, when three people are lying, has a way of showing itself in the seams where their lies fail to meet.

But then George produced something that chilled me: screenshots of messages, supposedly sent from my own messaging account.

In one, I had allegedly written that Chloe was big enough to stay by herself for a few hours.

In another, I had supposedly told Teresa not to bother sleeping over.

The messages used my profile photo, my name, even my particular way of phrasing things.

A cold understanding ran down my spine, not because the texts were real, but because they were fabrications, and remarkably careful ones.