The week before the gala, I barely slept. Not from nerves about the plan — from Lily. Her counts had dropped dangerously low after the third round of chemo, and she'd spiked a fever of 103. They moved her to a private room on the oncology floor and put her on IV antibiotics, and for forty-eight hours I didn't leave her side except to use the bathroom. Dr. Patel, her oncologist, sat with me at 2 a.m. while Lily slept and told me the fever was expected, that her little body was fighting, that this was the hardest part of the protocol.
"She's strong," Dr. Patel said. "Stronger than she looks."
"She gets that from her grandmother," I said, and we both smiled, because it was true.
On the third day, Lily's fever broke. She woke up and asked for chicken nuggets, and the nurses cheered like she'd won a prize. Dr. Patel cleared her to attend the gala — "two hours max, wheelchair, mask, no hugging strangers" — and Lily was so excited she cried. She'd been in the hospital for two months. The idea of wearing a dress and going to a party felt like a miracle to her.
I didn't tell her what was going to happen at that party. I told her Aunt Dana was getting an award and we were going to surprise her. Which was true, in a way.
The night before the gala, Tom called. He sounded tired. "Megan, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me."
My heart stopped. "Okay."
"Dana's been acting strange. Jumpy. She got a letter from an attorney last week — Rachel Kim, some woman in Nashville — about the business accounts, and she tore it up without opening it. I fished it out of the trash. It said something about disputed signatures." He paused. "Megan, did you hire a lawyer?"
I closed my eyes. Foster's warning rang in my ears: he doesn't know until we know. But this was my brother. My big brother, who sounded scared.
"Tom," I said carefully, "I hired a lawyer because the IRS says I owe ninety-six thousand dollars and the bank says I owe three hundred and ten thousand, and I didn't sign for any of it. That's all I can tell you right now. But I need you to listen to me: tomorrow night, at the gala, something is going to happen. When it does, I need you to stay in your seat and not interfere. Can you do that?"
"Jesus, Megan. What did she do?"
"I can't tell you. Not yet. But Tom — whatever you feel tomorrow night, remember that I love you. Remember that before anything else."
He was quiet for a long time. "The kids," he said finally. "My kids. If their mother — "
"I know," I said. "I'm their aunt. I'll be there for them. I promise."
I hung up and sat in the dark of Lily's hospital room, listening to her breathe, and I cried for my brother — for the weak, conflict-avoidant man who'd married a woman who was about to destroy their family, and who was going to find out about it in front of four hundred people.
My phone buzzed. A text from Bethany: "Tomorrow. I'm bringing the whole crew. We've got your back."
Another text, from Rachel: "Grand jury returned indictments today. 19 counts. Arrest warrants are signed and waiting. Foster's team will be at the gala. It's happening."
And one more, from Dana: "So excited for tomorrow! I had a dress custom-made. Emerald green. You're going to die. See you there, sis!"
I put the phone down and looked at Lily, asleep in her wheelchair-ready dress laid out on the chair — a soft blue dress with a sash, the first non-hospital clothes she'd worn in weeks.
"Tomorrow," I whispered, "we get our life back."
