Krystal's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
"The money was for..." She stopped. Her mind was blank. The words she had rehearsed a thousand times, the lies she had polished until they shone, had abandoned her.
"Was it for your dress?" someone asked from the audience, a voice sharp with accusation.
Krystal looked down at her white dress. The expensive fabric. The perfect fit. The designer label that had cost more than some people's rent.
"No," she whispered.
"Was it for your hair?" another voice called out.
Krystal's hand flew to her curled waves. The salon treatment. The expensive products. The hours in the stylist's chair.
"No."
"Was it for your makeup? Your shoes? Your jewelry? Your nails? Your bags?"
"No! No! No!"
"Then where is the money?"
