Chapter 30 - The Lawsuit That Went Viral
By Saturday morning, the lawsuit was public.
By Saturday afternoon, it was online.
By Sunday night, my family was viral again.
The headline made me physically ill.
VIRAL “GRAVY BOAT FAMILY” ACCUSED OF STEALING MILLIONS FROM SECRET DAUGHTER.
People love redemption stories.
They love scandals more.
Comment sections divided into teams.
Team Imagin.
Team Camille.
Team Elise.
Team “Rich Families Are All Terrible.”
Strangers dug through old photographs.
Someone posted my studio address.
Someone else found Matilda’s preschool.
That crossed a line.
I pulled her out temporarily.
When I told Camille, she looked horrified.
“I didn’t release anything about Matilda.”
“You filed a public lawsuit.”
“I didn’t expect people to target a three-year-old.”
“You’re an investigative journalist.”
That landed.
She looked down.
“You’re right.”
For two days, I was furious with her.
Then someone threw a brick through Camille’s apartment window.
Tied to it was a note.
LIAR.
Suddenly, there were no teams.
Just consequences.
I called her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Come stay at my studio apartment upstairs.”
Silence.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody gets threatened over this.”
She arrived with one suitcase.
Zora looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“You’re housing the woman suing your father?”
“For tonight.”
“Your life is exhausting.”
Camille slept upstairs.
At midnight, I found her sitting on the studio floor staring at the family gallery wall.
“You put your parents back.”
“Yes.”
“After what they did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they changed.”
She studied the photograph of Dad and Matilda.
“My mother never forgave your grandfather.”
“Did he apologize?”
“No.”
“Then maybe that’s different.”
She nodded.
After a while, she said, “She used to talk about you.”
I turned.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“She knew me?”
“She followed your photography website.”
My throat tightened.
“What?”
Camille pulled out her phone.
She showed me an old email draft.
Never sent.
Dear Imagin,
You don’t know me, but I think we see the world through similar eyes.
Your photographs remind me of work I made when I was young.
Never let anyone convince you that building life differently means building it incorrectly.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
“Why didn’t she send it?”
“She was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Of still wanting your family to remember her.”
My anger softened.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
“This can’t only be about money.”
Camille looked at me.
“It isn’t.”
“Then stop letting lawyers tell the story.”
“What do you suggest?”
I glanced at the photographs on my wall.
“Evidence.”
Her brow furrowed.
“We find the originals.”
“What originals?”
“The documents my grandfather burned.”
Camille gave me a sad look.
“Burned means gone.”
“Maybe.”
Then I remembered something Dad once told me about Grandfather.
He never trusted banks.
He kept duplicates of everything.
Always.
May you like
And suddenly, I knew where we had never looked.
The old family contracting warehouse.
