I made a mental note to call Opal. If Colette had been systematically targeting our friend group for loans, this was worse than I’d imagined.
After Sierra left, I did exactly that. Opal answered on the first ring, her therapist voice in full effect.
“I’ve been expecting your call,” she said. “You want to know if she asked me for money too.”
“Did she?”
“Not directly, but she talked a lot about her foundation’s work, how they needed a mental health component, how perfect I would be to consult.” Opal sighed. “I offered to volunteer my time. She seemed disappointed.”
“You saw through it.”
“Professional hazard. I notice when someone’s performing rather than being.” Opal paused. “In my professional opinion, Sarah, Colette shows traits consistent with Munchausen syndrome.”
“Isn’t that when people fake illnesses for attention?”
“Yes, but in this case, it’s almost like Munchausen by proxy, except the proxy is her own identity as a mother. She’s created a narrative where she gets sympathy, attention, and now financial gain, all centered around a pregnancy that doesn’t exist.”
I closed my eyes, overwhelmed. “What happens to someone like that?”
“Without intervention, the lies get bigger, the stakes get higher, and eventually it all falls apart.” Opal’s voice softened. “Has anyone heard from her?”
“Not since the story broke. She sent me a letter blaming me for everything.”
“Classic deflection. She can’t face her own culpability.”
After we hung up, I sat in silence, processing. My phone buzzed again—Gage, Colette’s brother.
“Sarah?” His voice was ragged when I answered. “Have you heard from Colette?”
“No. Have you?”
“Not since yesterday. She called me crying. I couldn’t understand most of it.” He paused, gathering himself. “I knew something was wrong. For months, I knew, but I didn’t have proof, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not your fault, Gage.”
“Isn’t it? She’s my sister. I should have pushed harder.” His voice broke. “The police are involved now. Someone filed fraud charges.”
My stomach dropped. “Already?”
“Multiple donors, apparently. And Sarah, she’s gone. Cleaned out her accounts this morning and disappeared.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “What about Alaric?”
“He says she left him, too. But he seems more angry than worried, which tells me everything I need to know about their marriage.”
After we hung up, I called Bennett at the hospital.
“Colette’s missing,” I said without preamble.
His voice went low, serious. “Missing how?”
“Disappeared. Accounts emptied. No one’s heard from her.”
A long pause. “She might come to you,” he said finally.
“Why would she? She blames me for exposing her.”
“Because you’re her constant. Her emotional safety net. Even when she’s pushing you away, she’s really pulling you closer.”
Bennett’s words haunted me as evening fell. I paced our house, jumping at every sound, peering through windows at the slightest movement. The rain started around nine, a gentle patter that grew into a downpour by midnight. Bennett had been called in for an emergency surgery, leaving me alone with my thoughts and fears.
I’d just decided to try to sleep when a soft knock came at the door. I froze, listening. It came again, not demanding, barely audible above the rain. I approached cautiously, peering through the peephole.
Colette stood on our porch, soaked to the skin, hair plastered to her face. No makeup, no designer clothes—just Colette, broken and dripping on our welcome mat.
I opened the door. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just stared at me with empty eyes. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, she collapsed forward into my arms. Her body felt small, fragile, as I caught her. For a woman who’d been portraying a seven-month pregnancy, she seemed to have wasted away to almost nothing. I could feel her ribs through her sodden shirt as I half-carried her inside.
I settled her on the couch, wrapping her in a throw blanket. She stared straight ahead, unresponsive. I made tea she didn’t drink, asked questions she didn’t answer. Finally, I just sat beside her in silence, watching the rain streak down our windows.
After what felt like hours, she spoke. One sentence, barely a whisper: “Tell me what to do. I’ll do it.”
I looked at her, this stranger wearing my best friend’s face, and felt nothing but exhaustion.
Bennett found us like that when he returned home at dawn: Colette curled into a ball on our couch, me sitting vigil in the armchair across from her. One look at his face told me he’d heard the news.
“They’ve issued a warrant,” he said quietly, leading me into the kitchen. “Fraud, multiple counts. The Graves Foundation is pressing charges.”
I glanced back at Colette’s sleeping form. “She has nothing left. No money, no home, no reputation.”
“That’s not our problem.” Bennett’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Sarah, she manipulated grieving families. She took advantage of people’s pain. She stole money under false pretenses.”
“I know. She needs to face consequences—and professional help.”
“I know that too.” Bennett sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She can’t stay here. I want her out by noon.”
I nodded, unable to argue. He was right. Harboring Colette now would make us complicit in whatever came next.
After he left for his shift, I made coffee and toast, setting a plate in front of Colette, who had finally stirred.
“Bennett wants you gone by noon,” I said, not bothering to soften the blow.
She nodded, picking at the toast without eating it. “Where will I go?”
“You could turn yourself in. Start taking responsibility.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “They’ll put me in jail.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But running will only make it worse.”
She looked up at me, a spark of the old Colette in her eyes. “A documentary producer called me yesterday. Wants to interview us both. ‘Deception and mental illness in the social media age.’ Offered good money.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? At least I’d control the narrative.”
I stared at her, incredulous. Even now, she was thinking about the performance, the audience, the attention.
“Colette, this isn’t a PR problem. It’s not something you can spin or repackage. You lied to everyone who loves you. You exploited people’s grief for money.”
“For the foundation,” she corrected automatically.
“The money went to the foundation, which you controlled, which enhanced your reputation, which gave you access to powerful people.” I leaned forward, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Stop lying to yourself, if no one else.”
Something cracked in her expression. “What do you want from me, Sarah? Tears? Confession? Self-flagellation? Will that make you feel better about abandoning me when I need you most?”
“This isn’t about me. It’s always been about you.” Her voice rose, color flooding her pale cheeks. “Perfect Sarah with her perfect husband and perfect career and perfect moral compass. Never a mistake. Never a misstep. Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand in your shadow year after year?”
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes,” I said quietly. “Including letting this friendship become so unbalanced that you think you can manipulate me the way you do everyone else.”
“I never manipulated you.”
“Didn’t you? The late-night crisis calls. The emergencies that always seemed to happen when I had something important going on. The constant need for reassurance and validation.”
She flinched as if I’d struck her. “That’s what friends do. They show up for each other.”
“Friends, not emotional vampires.”
We stared at each other across the kitchen table, twenty years of friendship stretching between us like a chasm.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” she whispered finally. “I can’t tell where the line is anymore between what’s real and what’s performance.”
“I know,” I said, softening despite myself. “That’s why you need help, Colette. Real help.”
She was silent for a long moment. “I just wanted to be special again.”
Before I could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. Through the window, I could see a police cruiser in our driveway. Colette’s eyes widened in panic. She bolted from her chair, heading for the back door.
I caught her arm. “Don’t,” I pleaded. “It will only be worse if you run.”
“Let me go.” She twisted in my grip, desperate. “Sarah, please. I can’t go to jail. I can’t.”
In that moment, I had to choose: the friend I’d known forever or the truth I couldn’t ignore, the loyalty that had defined most of my life or the moral clarity that had emerged from its ashes.
“I’ll speak for you,” I said finally, releasing her arm. “I’ll tell them you came here voluntarily, that you’re cooperative. It might help.”
She sagged against the wall, defeated. “You really think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I think you’re lost, and I can’t find you anymore.”
The next hours passed in a blur: statements given, charges read, Colette, hollow-eyed, being led to a police car. My promise to testify about what I knew, a partial account that omitted certain details that would have made things worse for her. A half-truth for a half-life.