Irvin held out his hand.
“Give me your phone. If we’re deciding what to do, I want to see exactly what she’s showing people.”
He compared her screenshots with the conversations on his own phone. His eyes went wide.
“We’ve got her,” he whispered.
Last chance: Apologize publicly at the HOA meeting
“What?”
“Claire. Come here.”
Vanessa hadn’t simply selected flattering messages. She had cropped them.
In one exchange, she’d written, Wish I had a man like you.
She had circulated that line but cut off Irvin’s response: You’ll find one. I’ve already got the woman I want.
She had cropped them.
Another read: You’re the only man I can rely on.
His reply was missing again: You need to stop saying things like that. Claire is my wife.
We now had something to fight back with socially, but the messages didn’t fix my garage.
