Oh that card. Not the one sent by her later, after she’d lied to keep him trapped, that silent admission of guilt that was never followed up on, impetus either unreal and self-serving or buried after in spite. No, the card included in the pink bag. The one he’d given. She’d taken a photo of the name tag, a Valentine, and given them that to bolster her claims. But she had hidden the card that was inside, within the donation. The one that had wished her well and said goodbye. She had not shown them that. For, if she had, it would have cast a long shadow over her claims. So that she hid. And, still, she believed she was good, and she was believed out of hand, coddled by those around her, as if she were an angel. But she had engineered everything, omitting what did not support her concoction, and she never told any of them about it. They just believed. Even the one who had seen it continued to abet her, because their brand of friendship came only with nominative support, not enough care to set each other straight, to call out each other’s errors, only based in convenience.