compiling. Screenshots from the viral video. Old yearbook photos showing her victims. Posts from her fake business pages. Put it all in a digital folder. Emailed Alan. Subject: Evidence. Body: Let me help.
He responded in an hour. Yes. Please.
He had lawyers, yes, but was drowning in the chaos she left. Fake licenses, potentially stolen art pieces she passed off as hers (some looked suspiciously like prints from local artists I framed for). He had no idea where to even start untangling her web.
I let him use my small framing studio back room for meetings. He brought coffee. We spent weeks, then months, sifting through papers, screenshots, timelines. Somewhere in the meticulous work of documenting Trina’s fraud, we started talking. About life. Losing trust. His dad dying young. My mom working three jobs. He never looked at me like I was small or broken. He just… understood. The silence, the need to survive.
Trina’s case dragged. But Alan, armed with organized evidence (much of it compiled by me), had an airtight case. $280,000+ stolen. Multiple forgeries. Fake brand identity. Tax fraud. Sentence: 4 years, state prison.
Her mugshot hit the local news. No fake lashes, no spray tan, no Hermès (fake or otherwise). Just orange jumpsuit. Hollow eyes. Unrecognizable.
Rebuilding & Unexpected Beginnings (UPDATE)
The fallout continued. Trina’s mother lost her house to foreclosure. Monica pressed charges (fraud, emotional distress). Danielle and Wes posted public apologies on Facebook years too late; no one cared.
Me? I didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to. I just kept living. Kept building my business. Kept showing up.
Six months after the trial ended, Alan and I started dating. Slowly. Carefully. Rebuilding trust, not just w
