Lulu turned slightly toward the screen, allowing the new title to detonate in the minds of the stunned crowd like a lit match on dry grass.
Aunt Mariella let out a strangled gasp, her hand flying to her chest. Her husband, Uncle Joaquín, leaned forward in his seat, as though bracing for impact. The rest of the room teetered between scandalized silence and morbid anticipation.
Lulu cleared her throat gently, eyes scanning the crowd before returning to the microphone. "As many of you know, when Amelia's mother—Josephine—passed away unexpectedly, Amelia was just fifteen. And Aunt Mariella, in what many of you deemed an act of overwhelming generosity, took her in."
A few people nodded slowly, unsure if that was still a safe thing to do.
Lulu pressed the button on the remote, and the next slide appeared: an old news clipping of Amelia's mother's obituary next to a grainy photo of Amelia at fifteen.
Lulu's voice shifted, taking on a firmer tone. "What most of you don't know is that the very first thing Aunt Mariella did when she got custody of Amelia... was blow through every last cent of the insurance money and savings Amelia's mother left her."
A collective gasp surged through the room.
The screen changed again. This time, a video played. A shaky but clear recording of a pristine white luxury SUV pulling into a driveway. Another of a luxury vacation in Santorini—Aunt Mariella posing with a cocktail, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and her husband's arm around her waist. And then: a lavish wedding reception with ice sculptures, fireworks, and a champagne fountain. A caption appeared beneath the footage, added by Lulu and Amelia, of course:
"All paid for by the 'Amelia Fund.'"
"Amelia's college fund," Lulu continued, voice cool but razor-sharp, "was instead used to pay for her cousin Mateo's university tuition. Which he dropped out of after just two years. But not before getting a new MacBook, a gaming PC, and an apartment in a building with a rooftop pool."
Mateo sunk low in his seat, face burning.
"And when Amelia turned sixteen," Lulu went on, clicking to the next slide—a digital scan of a handwritten IOU, "Aunt Mariella started charging her rent. Yes. RENT. A sixteen-year-old girl, working two part-time jobs while attending high school, paying rent to live with people that had already stolen 6-figures worth from her."
The murmurs had now become angry muttering. Some glanced toward Mariella with narrowed eyes. Others looked down, ashamed—clearly being privy to this information and skimming some off of the money left to Amelia for themselves too.
Lulu didn't flinch. "Despite all this, Amelia got into a decent college and was granted a full scholarship. She worked hard, kept her head down, and didn't make trouble. Not that Aunt Mariella noticed. Or cared. In fact, she'd constantly put Amelia down, tell her she'd never amount to anything."
Another click. This time, a series of text messages appeared on the screen.
Mariella: "Maybe if you weren't such a self-centered brat, your mother wouldn't have died. She probably wanted to leave you."
Mariella: "You think getting into a school means you're better than us? Don't forget who fed you, girl."
Mariella: "You should be grateful we took you in. No one else wanted you."
Gasps, again. Audible disgust.
"You told us you were paying for her school," someone hissed from the third row.
Mariella didn't answer. Couldn't.
Lulu let the silence thicken before clicking once more.
"And yet," she continued, "the hypocrisy doesn't end there. While Aunt Mariella was berating Amelia and stealing her future, she had no idea what her own daughter was up to."
The next slide appeared: a grainy photo of a teenage girl—Mariella's daughter, Camila—sitting on a couch at what was clearly a party. A rolled-up paper in her hand. A suspicious white substance on the table. Several other teens with their faces blurred out stood nearby, drinks in hand.
A collective breath sucked in. Someone said, "Oh my god," under their breath.
"All that money Amelia earned from her two jobs?" Lulu asked rhetorically. "Given over to Camila under the claim that it was for SAT prep."
Click.
Photos of receipts for SAT tutoring companies—none matching the area. One bolded text at the bottom of the slide:
"No record of any actual sessions."
Click.
More texts:
Sofía: "Chill, I'll use it for prep eventually. Anyway, don't tell mom I was out. She thinks I'm studying."
Sofía: "Thanks for the cash, loser."
Lulu let that last one linger before clicking to the final set of texts.
Mariella: "You know your cousin Sofía is trying. Unlike you. You're just a burden. A leech. Your mother would be ashamed."
Silence had engulfed the room now. Total. Thick. Suffocating.
Lulu took a small step back from the microphone, giving everyone a moment to process.
From the stage next to Lulu, Amelia looked down at the audience, taking in their various reactions—some shocked faces, some pale with guilt, others red with rage or embarrassment.
But Amelia didn't feel the rush of triumph or exhilaration she expected at her revenge from the grave.
"This is just the beginning," she said softly as Lulu clicked the next button on the slide show.