At dinner, my parents demanded I apologize to their golden son or lose my education. I said, “Alright.” By dawn, I was packed. My brother’s face drained white: “Please tell me you didn’t send it.” Dad froze. “Send what?”

I lifted my suitcase handle. “I protected myself.”

He moved quickly for a man who always claimed his blood pressure was too high for stress. He stepped in front of the door, blocking it with his shoulder. “You are not leaving until you explain.”

That was when my phone buzzed. Then again. Then again, until the kitchen counter sounded like a nest of wasps. Emails. Texts. Calls. My aunt. My university adviser. The county estate attorney. A woman from the student loan fraud unit whose name I had memorized at three in the morning because fear makes you organized. How-To,DIY & Expert Content

Brandon’s face turned gray. “You sent the folder.”

Dad snapped, “What folder?”