“At my son’s wedding, you pointed at me in front o…

Charles Whitmore saw me approaching. His expression shifted from smug satisfaction to confusion, then to alarm. He stepped in front of the microphone, holding up one hand like a traffic cop.

“Ma’am, this is family time,” he said sharply, his voice carrying across the room. “Perhaps you could return to your seat.”

I stopped a few feet away from him. Our eyes met.

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” I said quietly. His wife, Diane, moved beside him, her diamond necklace catching the light. She looked at me the way you might look at someone who wandered into the wrong event.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “This really isn’t the time for—”

“For what?” I interrupted. My voice was calm, steady.

“For the truth?”

A murmur swirled through the crowd. Rebecca, the bride, stepped forward in her massive white gown. She looked panicked now, like she was suddenly realizing this wasn’t going the way she’d planned.