Barbara scrambled backward, clutching her arm and gasping in shock as if I had just held her at gunpoint. Derek rushed forward, his face red with sudden panic. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled.
“You just hurt my mother.” I ignored his outburst and calmly walked over to the coffee table. I picked up the supposedly damning DNA test with my free hand. It took my intelligence-trained eyes exactly three seconds to dismantle his entire charade. This is fascinating, Derek, I said, my voice projecting clearly across the silent room.
You claim you got this through the military medical database since Lily is registered under my insurance. But the header on this document is printed in Arial font. The Defense Health Agency strictly mandates Times New Roman for all official records. Furthermore, the specimen barcode at the bottom lacks the mandatory 12-digit alphanumeric sequence.
You did not get this from a hospital. You bought a cheap template online and printed it yourself. Derek’s jaw locked. The smugness vanished from his eyes, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear.
The relatives sitting on the couches exchanged uncertain glances. The narrative they had been fed was already showing cracks. Before Derek could formulate a lie to cover his tracks, the front door swung open. Brittany, Derek’s 28-year-old junior broker, struggled through the doorway dragging two large suitcases.
I recognized the luggage immediately. It was mine. Brittany froze when she saw me standing in the center of the room, looking completely unbothered. I packed everything from the master bedroom, Derek, Brittany said, her voice faltering as she realized the ambush had not gone as planned.
I looked at the suitcases, then at Brittany, and finally back to my husband. The picture was perfectly clear. This was not a sudden discovery of infidelity. This was a premeditated eviction.
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