Monique snatched the paper, and her lips moved as she read. It was a printed copy of a text thread she had sent to her mother three weeks earlier, forwarded to me by mistake when Grant’s old tablet synced with my account. One line was circled in red: “Once she pays for the chalet, we will tell her we cannot afford a gift. She will feel guilty and give us more.” Her hands began to shake.

Grant leaned over her shoulder, and the color left his face. “Monique,” he whispered, “you told me your mother needed that money for her surgery.” Monique stammered that it was a joke. Then a car door shut at the end of the drive, and her mother, in a white coat and pearl earrings, started up the walk carrying a shopping bag with a Surface Pro box visible inside