She turned it to the light. “These fake pages are perfectly dry.”

Lydia began to hyperventilate, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped rat looking for a sewer grate. “Computers can be faked! She photoshopped that!

She’s a tech-obsessed delinquent!”

“We can have forensics pull the metadata from the emails,” the male officer said flatly, stepping away from me and moving toward the front door, cutting off her exit.

“It’ll show exactly when these photos were taken and sent.”

The trap had sprung in reverse, and the jaws were closing around my mother’s ankles. I watched the realization hit her — the absolute loss of control.