Chapter Three: The Setup

The gaslighting began before the appetizers were even served.

Maryanne operated like a battlefield commander, keeping me physically separated from Eleanor. Every time I sat down near my grandmother, my mother would interject—asking me to check the oven, to fetch ice, to help Sloan fold napkins.

Sloan looked immaculate, her European villa deposit practically radiating from her pores. But her eyes were manic, darting constantly toward my satchel. They had tried to sabotage me already. Earlier, when I went to the guest room to freshen up, I noticed the zipper on my bag was slightly askew. Someone had rummaged through it. They had found the standard HDMI cable for my laptop and stolen it.

They thought they had disarmed me. They didn’t know I carried three backups, plus wireless casting adapters. They were playing checkers; I was building a digital guillotine.

Blaine cornered me in the hallway as I was carrying a tray of glasses. He blocked my path, his cologne suffocating in the narrow space.

“Sloan says you’re acting paranoid,” Blaine murmured, leaning down. “You spend too much time hunting hackers, Riley. You’re seeing conspiracies where there’s just family.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” I asked, not breaking eye contact.

“Eleanor is slipping,” he continued, his tone turning hard and instructional. “She needs care. Expensive care. We’re restructuring her assets to protect her. If you start throwing around accusations tonight, you’re going to give an old woman a heart attack, and you’re going to ruin this family’s reputation. Don’t be the villain here.”

He was trying to cage me with guilt. He wanted me to believe that exposing the fraud would be a greater sin than the fraud itself.

“Restructuring,” I repeated softly. “That’s an interesting word for it.”

“It’s the adult word,” he sneered. “Now go sit down. And try to act like you belong here.”

He walked away, adjusting his cuffs. I watched his retreating back, the cold clarity in my chest hardening into diamond.

The dining room was a masterpiece of domestic theater. Crystal gleamed in the candlelight. The turkey sat perfectly browned in the center of the table. Maryanne directed everyone to their seats. She placed Eleanor at the head of the table, treating her with a patronizing sweetness that made my skin crawl.

I took the seat directly across from Eleanor. I placed my phone face down next to my plate. Beneath the table, my hand rested on the small, wireless mini-projector I had quietly pulled from my pocket.

Maryanne poured the wine. Sloan began talking loudly about her wedding dress fittings in Milan. Everyone was playing their part in the grand illusion.

Then, Maryanne clinked her glass.

“Before we eat,” Maryanne announced, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet, “Mom, didn’t you have something you wanted to say to Riley?”

Maryanne looked at me, her eyes wide with a frantic, silent warning. Play along. Don’t ruin this.

Eleanor looked confused for a fleeting second, looking down at her empty plate. Then she looked at me. “I wanted to help you, sweetheart,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “I know I can’t do much anymore. But I wanted you to have a little something.”

Maryanne nodded encouragingly at me. It was my cue. I was supposed to open the envelope, pull out the $200 check, and express my profound gratitude, cementing their narrative that Eleanor was poor, confused, and generous with pennies.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white envelope. I didn’t open it. I laid it flat on the mahogany table.

I looked at my grandmother, then at my mother, and finally at Blaine.

“Thank you, Grandma,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy air. “Thank you for the two-hundred dollar check.”

Maryanne exhaled a massive sigh of relief. Sloan smiled. Blaine reached for his scotch.

“But I have a question,” I continued, the room instantly freezing. “Why did Mom give me a check for two hundred dollars, when the gift you actually wired to my account was half a million?”