Chapter 2 - The Price of Pity
The fundraiser was titled *Help Vesper Rebuild After Family Violence*. The goal was set at fifty thousand dollars, and within three hours of posting, the ticker was already past twelve thousand.
Beneath the title, Vesper had written a masterclass in calculated victimhood. She claimed that my "unprovoked episode" at the reception had left her with severe post-traumatic stress, chronic insomnia, and an urgent need to relocate to a gated community because she no longer felt safe in Richmond. She had attached a photo of herself sitting on an emergency room examination table, her mascara artfully smeared, clutching a cardboard cup of water. It was the same photo she had taken three years ago when she had mild food poisoning after eating raw oysters in Cabo.
"Look at the comments," Maeve whispered over the speakerphone, her voice tight with rage.
I scrolled down. Dozens of acquaintances, distant cousins, and strangers were offering their condolences and fury.
*Sloane always had that crazy look in her eyes,* my cousin Bianca wrote. *Sending you love, Vesper. She belongs in an institution.*
*Don't let her drag you down, sweet girl,* wrote our aunt Clara, donating five hundred dollars. *Blood doesn't mean you have to endure abuse.*
"She’s monetizing a concussion she gave me," I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. My hands trembled as I gripped the counter. The stitches across my shoulder and back pulled tight, burning against the bandages. "She threw me through a heavy tempered glass door, Declan. She almost severed my carotid artery, and now she’s crowdsourcing fifty thousand dollars off the story."
Declan took the phone gently from my fingers and placed it face down on the granite island. He didn't look flustered; he looked chillingly calm, the way he always did when he was preparing an insurmountable corporate litigation strategy.
"She committed wire fraud," Declan said plainly. "And civil defamation per se. She is falsely accusing you of a violent felony to solicit public funds under false pretenses."
"My family believes her," I said, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to stop the stinging tears. "They all called me yesterday. Every single one of them thinks I lost my mind."
"Your family knows the truth, Sloane. They're just choosing the side that doesn't shatter their thirty-year lie," Declan said, wrapping an arm around my waist, careful not to touch my bruised ribs. "I called Frank Vance twenty minutes ago."
Frank Vance was one of the sharpest criminal defense and civil trial attorneys in the commonwealth. He had been a partner at Declan’s father’s firm before starting his own boutique practice.
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"What did Frank say?" I asked.
"He said we need two things before we drop the hammer on her," Declan replied, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "First, the full unedited security footage from the club terrace. Second, the certified microfiche records from Henrico Doctors’ Hospital from nineteen ninety-eight. Once we have both, Vesper isn't just going to lose her internet campaign. She's going to be facing a grand jury."
