That weekend, my best friend Clara came over to my apartment. Clara was one of the few people in my life who never softened her intelligence to make other people comfortable. She brought takeout, kicked off her boots in my kitchen, and sat across from me at the island while I scrolled through Shannon’s latest online performance.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the tap of my finger against the tablet screen.
Clara studied the photos for a long moment and then looked up at me.
“Do you not find this incredibly strange?”
She pointed to a picture of Shannon leaning against the new car, smiling like a woman who had just closed a multimillion-dollar deal instead of torched a sinking brand.
“Someone on the edge of bankruptcy doesn’t just wake up and buy a sports car unless a huge pile of money appeared from somewhere.”
I nodded slowly.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing all morning.”
The math would not reconcile. Shannon had no profitable turnaround, no new investor, no hidden inheritance. There was no version of the numbers that supported the lifestyle she was suddenly flaunting.
A cold feeling settled low in my stomach.