False evidence?

"M-Me!" Ava stammered, holding the lunch box awkwardly as if it were a ticking time bomb.

"Who else?" Lilianna's expression was laced with mock seriousness. "Do you see anyone else here who can do it? I would, but—" she sank into the nearby sofa with a theatrical sigh, "Chicken soup makes me nauseous these days."

Ava turned toward Dylan, her face set in a grim scowl. She slammed the lunch box onto the side table with a thud. "He is not that weak," she muttered, crossing her arms. "He can feed himself."

"Ugh, my head hurts," Dylan groaned dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes as though he was in genuine pain.

Ava seethed in anger, her nostrils flaring. She could see right through him—he was obviously pretending.