Inside my handbag was the PTA treasurer’s binder, the bright orange one every parent in that gym recognized. Last spring, the old treasurer, Mrs. Alvarez, had handed it to me before moving away, asking me to keep it safe until the district audit. I had never opened it. But after Denise’s words, I flipped it open on a folding table and began reading the first page out loud.

The gym fell silent as I read one line, three hundred and forty dollars reimbursed to Denise Whitfield for decorations, then the same line again, eleven times. Denise lunged toward me, her face drained of color, hissing that I had no right. But Mrs. Alvarez’s handwriting was clear, and the district’s stamp on the last page was dated that very week. Then the principal stepped through the doorway behind us. “Denise, please step outside with me.”