Chapter 9 - PROJECT LIGHTHOUSE
Hailey had always seemed harmless.
Selfish, yes.
Entitled, absolutely.
But harmless.
She posted restaurant meals she didn’t pay for.
Vacation photos somebody else financed.
Designer handbags she returned after photographing them.
She had lived in our guest room for eleven months without contributing to utilities.
I had assumed her worst quality was irresponsibility.
I had underestimated her.
Project Lighthouse was a digital archive.
Hailey had created it at Gertrude’s request.
Its purpose was simple.
Build a case against me.
They saved photographs of my empty side of the bed when I worked late.
Screenshots of messages where I said I could not attend dinner.
Videos showing Skylar eating with Brandon when I was traveling.
Pictures of unopened mail.
Photographs of wine bottles after parties.
Anything that could be presented without context.
There were even recordings.
One captured me shouting at Brandon.
It sounded terrible.
Until the full recording revealed what happened beforehand.
He had taken $14,000 from our emergency account and lied about it.
The archive contained only my reaction.
Not his admission.
“Where is it stored?” I asked.
Brandon hesitated.
“Cloud account.”
“Whose?”
“Hailey’s.”
Rebecca obtained the information through Brandon’s attorney after warning him that destruction of evidence could create far worse problems.
By the next morning, Hailey had apparently realized what was happening.
She deleted posts.
She deleted accounts.
She removed photographs from social media.
But she made one mistake.
She had backed Project Lighthouse onto a family tablet.
A tablet purchased with my account.
And Brandon knew the passcode.
When Rebecca received a lawful copy through counsel, we finally saw the scale of it.
Folders were labeled by month.
“Charlotte absent.”
“Charlotte angry.”
“Charlotte spending.”
“Charlotte drinking.”
“Skylar with Dad.”
And one folder labeled “Medical.”
I opened it.
My hands began shaking.
Inside were fake appointment notes.
Fake prescription screenshots.
A fabricated email supposedly written by a therapist.
According to those documents, I suffered from severe emotional instability.
None of it was true.
The therapist named in the file didn’t even exist.
Rebecca stared at the screen.
“They intended to use fabricated mental-health evidence in a custody dispute.”
I could barely speak.
“Could that actually work?”
“Not once examined properly.”
She looked at me.
“But it could create chaos before anyone discovered it was false.”
There was one more folder.
“Transition.”
Inside was a calendar.
Dates.
Tasks.
Deadlines.
The final date was three weeks away.
Next to it were the words:
CHARLOTTE MOVES OUT.
Below that:
SKYLAR STAYS.
I felt my throat close.
Then Rebecca clicked another file.
A moving-company estimate appeared.
They had already booked movers.
Not for Gertrude.
May you like
Not for Hailey.
For me.
