Chapter 6

Then I opened Twitter and Instagram and searched for "Emily."

Sure enough, I found her accounts. The content was similar but more lifestyle-focused. On Instagram, she had one post with over ten thousand likes. The caption read: [How an Ordinary Girl Made It to Cambridge PhD?]

I clicked on it and found a carefully edited long post with beautiful photos.

[I grew up in a regular family, and my parents passed away when I was young, but I never gave up on my dreams. I finished my degree with scholarships and part-time jobs. ]

[During the hardest times, I worked three jobs a day and stayed up late writing papers at night. But I knew all my hard work would pay off.]

The comments section was full of praise.

[So inspiring!]

[A truly independent woman!]

[I want to be like you!]

[Beautiful and strong, I'm so jealous!]

I scrolled through the comments, then exited and took a screenshot of the post.

After I finished all that, I realized I'd been standing outside the coffee shop for twenty minutes. The girls came out with their drinks and walked past me, laughing and chatting, and a sweet scent drifted by.

I put away my phone and kept walking. I turned right at the next intersection and reached my apartment building. It was a 320-square-foot studio with a monthly rent of 830 dollars, three bus stops from the wholesale market.

The moment I opened the door, the familiar cramped space greeted me. There was a bed, a desk, a closet, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom.

Fashion design sketches and inventory lists covered the walls, and ledgers and a calculator were piled on the desk. This had been my entire life for six years.

I put the folder on the desk, opened my laptop, and started organizing the recordings. I listened to each one and transcribed it. The night grew late, and I could occasionally hear cars passing by outside, the neighbor's TV, and dogs barking in the distance.

At two in the morning, I heard the special notification I'd set for Emily.

I opened it and saw her new Instagram post, a nighttime photo of the city lights from above. The caption read: [Sharing this view with my beloved, life is complete. Grateful for all experiences, good and bad, that made me who I am today.]

The location tag showed a five-star hotel rooftop bar.

I stared at the photo for a long time, then closed my phone and went back to work.

By the time dawn was breaking, I'd finished transcribing all the recordings into seventy-four pages.

The oldest one was from March 2018, and the newest was from three months ago. Every page documented her reasons for asking for money, my promises, her thanks, and her reassurances.

I printed everything and bound it. I wrote on the cover: [2017-2023, Emily's Payment Requests.]

Then I opened my contacts and started making calls.

I called my uncle first. The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. My uncle, Daniel Lane's, voice was groggy when he answered. "Who is this? It's so early."

"Uncle Daniel, it's me, Grace," I said.

"Grace? What's wrong?" His voice cleared up a bit.

"Uncle Daniel, I need your help with something," I said, briefly explaining the situation.

The line went quiet for a long time, and then I heard a long sigh. "Grace, I hate to say it, but you shouldn't have given Emily all that money from the start," Daniel said. "Now she's turned around and she's coming after you."

"So will you testify for me?" I asked.

"Testify? You mean in court?" Daniel's voice wavered. "Family going to court against each other looks bad. Why don't you just talk to her and settle this privately?"

"She already sued me, Uncle Daniel," I said. "I have the papers."

Daniel went silent again.

"Uncle Daniel," I continued, "Mom and Dad left 290 thousand dollars. I gave it all to Emily and I didn't keep a single cent for myself.

"Over the past six years, I gave her another 220 thousand dollars from my own salary. Now she's demanding I return half of the 290 thousand. If you were me, what would you do?"

Daniel made a sharp clicking sound with his tongue. "That girl has gone too far! Alright, I'll help you. When's the hearing? I'll be there."

"Next Wednesday at nine a.m."

"I'll be there, I promise."

I hung up with Daniel and called my second aunt, my third uncle, and my younger aunt. They all had similar reactions. They were shocked at first, then angry, and finally agreed to testify.

My last call was to a social worker named Rachel Lewis. She had helped me handle a lot of the paperwork after my parents died.

"Mrs. Lewis, this is Grace. I need you to write me a statement."

By the time I finished all the calls, the sun was coming up. Morning light streamed through the narrow window, casting a pale rectangle on the desk.

I stood up and walked to the bathroom, and I splashed cold water on my face. The person staring back at me in the mirror had hollow eyes and dull skin, but her gaze was clear.

Four more days.

The afternoon before the hearing, Michael called me to his office for our final prep session.

His office was even messier than it had been five days ago. Files, printouts, and empty coffee cups covered his desk, and the whiteboard was filled with relationship charts and timelines.

Michael himself looked more exhausted, but there was a focused intensity in his eyes.

"You got everything ready?" he asked, handing me a fresh cup of coffee.

I nodded and set the folder I'd brought on his desk. "Bank statements, transcripts of the recordings, statements from my relatives, proof from the community center, and screenshots from Emily's social media."

Michael took the screenshots and skimmed through them. A sarcastic smile played on his lips. "Ordinary girl becomes Cambridge PhD? Funded her education through scholarships and part-time jobs?

"She worked three jobs a day abroad? So all these luxury brands, international trips, and five-star restaurants were paid for by her part-time work?"

I kept my voice calm. "She meant I worked three jobs a day. The wholesale market opened at five in the morning, so I woke up at four to get the best inventory.

"I ran the shop during the day, sorted stock and did the books at night, and worked the night market on weekends."

Michael looked up at me, and his expression was unreadable, but he didn't say anything. He kept flipping through the documents and finally picked up the blue notebook, turning to the last page.

He tapped the page. "The total recorded here is 512,533 dollars. The bank statements show you transferred exactly 512,533 dollars. Not a cent off."

I nodded. "I wrote down every transfer. I was afraid I'd lose track."