Page 48 of Sweet Ruin

Next.

“This image shows a hotel receipt from the Marriott by the Brooklyn Bridge. They got steak-frites and then a little sweet treat for the two of them. How nice, right? But— Oh, dear. What’s that date say?”

The date runs a foot tall across the top of it. 7 FEB 2026.

“Delilah,” my mother snaps, “what the hell is this?”

“Read the date, Mom.”

From the back of the room, from an aunt who has done the crossword at every family function of my life, comes a horrified gasp.

“Oh—oh, God. Leanne… Leanne, that’s the day we buried him.”

“It is,” I say. “I guess funerals put them in the mood.”

Click.

“But they were in the mood a lot this year,” I continue. “I happened to come across some text messages they’d been exchanging. Look here, and here, and here, and here, and— Well, I could go on, but you get the point. They liked to meet up at that hotel a lot.”

Click.

“They also liked to slip away at just about every family function where they could find fifteen minutes and a broom closet. I bet they did it at some of your houses. Might want to hire a cleaning service.”

Click.

“They said some other stuff, too. Mostly about me. Would anyone like to read them?” I ask.

Not one person budges or makes a peep.

“No? Nobody? Okay, that’s fine. I’ll do it.”

those jeans make her look fkin massive

there’s more of her every year.

Eat-It-All Delilah

“Take your time,” I encourage the stunned crowd. “They did.”

I can hear a fly buzzing around the room, but not one person reacts to it. They’re all frozen in their seats, jaws on the floor. Vivian is the color of milk.

“If that were all they’d done to me, it would be unforgivable,” I say. “But it’s not all. Not even by a little bit.”

Click.

“Apparently, it wasn’t enough to rip apart my family and steal away my husband. No, these two wouldn’t be satisfied that easily. They wanted to take more from me. I found this in my sink.”

The image on the slide shows a corner of paper, burned to a crisp along the top, with V HAVEN HOLDINGS, LLC across what’s left of the letterhead.

“The name typed above that line is mine,” I say. “The signature isn’t.”

Connor drops his beer and whimpers.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘It’s a burnt-to-shit scrap of paper. It could be anything.’ I tried to tell myself the same thing. But then I found this in the mail today.”

I take four stapled pages out of my bag with my own dried blood smeared across the top corner where the envelope sliced me. I hold them up over my head so the back of the room can see.

“This document spells out the full terms of what Connor did. He took out a loan for four million dollars, secured against my bakery as collateral. He hasn’t repaid a penny of it, and the lender no longer thinks he will. On the 15th of January, they’re going to come and take it.”