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Johnny. The name burned in Leo’s mind.

“Leo, this is Johnny. We used to know each other… before.”

Johnny slipped a folded napkin back. “Blue chip. Minimum buy-in is fifty thousand.”

To the outside world, Claire was the PTA’s golden goose. She organized the bake sales, never missed a recital, and always had a warm, vanilla-scented smile for the mailman. But her son, Leo, a perceptive fifteen-year-old with his father’s quiet eyes, knew something was off.

She told him everything. Not all at once, but in fragments as they walked away from the festival, leaving a stunned Johnny holding a plate of cake.