Chapter 4
By the time Ethan got home that night, the house was full of people.
His aunt Linda—Margaret’s younger sister—was perched on the living room couch, a glass of white wine in her hand, her face tight with concern. Two of Margaret’s bridge club friends were there too, nodding along like a chorus as Margaret spoke in soft, tragic tones.
Claire was in the corner, holding Noah tight to her chest, her eyes downcast. She was wearing a thick sweater even though the house was 75 degrees. To cover the bruises, Ethan realized. His blood boiled.
“Ethan, honey!” Margaret called, standing up to greet him. She kissed his cheek, her perfume thick and cloying. “I’m so glad you’re home. Linda was just in the neighborhood, and we got to talking about poor Claire. We’re all so worried.”
Ethan shrugged off her kiss, walking straight to Claire. He knelt in front of her, taking Noah from her arms for a second so she could stretch her aching back. She gave him a tiny, grateful smile.
“Worried about what?” Ethan said, standing up with Noah against his chest. The baby smelled like powder and milk, warm and solid. He kissed the top of Noah’s soft head.
Margaret exchanged a sad look with Linda.
“Oh, Ethan,” Linda said, leaning forward. “Your mom told us what happened last night. Claire screaming at the baby, throwing things… that poor little thing. Postpartum psychosis is no joke. It can happen to anyone, even the sweetest girls.”
Claire flinched. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Ethan’s head snapped to Margaret. She was watching him, eyes wide and innocent, like she hadn’t just fabricated a whole story to turn his own family against his wife.
“Last night?” Ethan said, keeping his voice level. “Claire was exhausted. Noah had a fever. She was upset. That’s all that happened.”
Margaret sighed, sitting back down. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, even though there were no tears.
“That’s what she wants you to think, baby,” she said. “But I was there. I saw her. She was rocking back and forth, talking to herself, saying she wished the baby had never been born. I had to physically restrain her to keep her from hurting him. It was terrifying. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, worrying.”
The bridge club ladies gasped. Clucked their tongues.
“Poor Margaret,” one said. “Having to deal with all this alone.”
“Your son works so hard,” said the other. “The last thing he needs is a crazy wife.”
Claire stood up so fast her coffee mug tipped over, spilling brown liquid all over the rug. She didn’t even look at it. Her face was white, her eyes blazing. For the first time in months, the old Claire was back—the sharp, bold architect who didn’t take crap from anyone.
“That is not what happened,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “Your sister came into the nursery at two in the morning. She dragged me across the floor by my hair. She tried to force me to take pills I didn’t need. She told me she was going to take my son and tell everyone I was insane. Ask her. Ask her what kind of pills they were. Ask her why she won’t let me call a doctor for my own baby.”
The room went dead silent.
Linda looked at Margaret, confused. The bridge ladies exchanged awkward glances.
Margaret’s face crumpled. She burst into loud, heaving sobs, covering her face with her hands.
“Oh my God,” she wept. “She’s lying. She’s lying because she knows I saw her. She’s trying to turn my own son against me. Ethan, baby, how can you let her say these things? I gave up my whole life for you. I raised you alone. I moved here to help you, and she accuses me of… of this?”
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. The performance was Oscar-worthy. If Ethan hadn’t seen the footage with his own eyes, he might have believed her.
“Claire would never lie about something like this,” Ethan said. His voice was cold as ice. He stepped closer to Claire, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. “And she would never hurt our son. You want to talk about restraining people, Mom? Let’s talk about the bruise on her left wrist. The one in the exact shape of your fingers. Let’s talk about why she has to wear long sleeves in July.”
He pulled Claire’s left sleeve up before Margaret could stop him.
Dark purple fingerprints wrapped around her thin wrist, clear as day.
The room gasped again. This time, it was directed at Margaret.
Linda stood up, her wine glass forgotten. Her face was pale.
“Margaret?” she said, voice shaking. “What is he talking about?”
Margaret stopped crying. Just like that. The tears vanished. Her face smoothed out into something cold and ugly. The mask was gone completely now.
“She did that to herself,” Margaret said, nodding at Claire like she was a bug under her shoe. “Crazy people do that, you know? Hurt themselves to get attention. Everyone knows that. She’s been doing it for weeks. Cutting her arms, pinching herself, leaving bruises just so she can blame me. She’s sick, Linda. Very, very sick. And if Ethan doesn’t do something soon, that baby is going to get hurt.”
She turned to Ethan, her eyes black with rage.
“You think you’re so smart,” she said, low enough only he could hear. “You think you have it all figured out. But you forget one thing, son. I know about the Westside deal. I know about the fake invoices, the bribes to the city council, the money you moved offshore to avoid taxes. I have every email. Every receipt. Every bit of proof. If you try to put me in jail, I’ll burn your company to the ground. You’ll lose every penny. You’ll go to prison for 20 years. And who do you think will get custody of Noah then? Hmm? Me. Because I’m the only stable, responsible family he has left.”
Ethan’s blood ran cold.
The Westside deal. It had been a Hail Mary two years prior, when the company was days from bankruptcy. He’d done what he had to do to save it. Only three people in the world knew the details—his CFO, his lawyer, and…
His mother.
He’d told her over dinner one night, drunk and stressed, thinking she’d be proud he’d saved the business they’d built together. She’d held it over his head ever since. A loaded gun, just waiting for the right moment to fire.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
Margaret smiled. Sweet. Deadly.
“Try me,” she said.
She turned back to the room, the mask slipping back into place. She dabbed at her dry eyes with the tissue again.
“I think it’s best if I go stay at a hotel for a few days,” she said, her voice trembling. “Clearly, my presence here is upsetting Claire. I would never do anything to make this harder for my son. I just want what’s best for everyone. Especially that sweet baby.”
She walked to the door, grabbing her designer bag off the hook. Before she left, she looked back at Ethan.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Then she was gone.
Linda and the bridge ladies left soon after, confused and uncomfortable, not sure who to believe. When the front door clicked shut, Claire collapsed against Ethan, sobbing into his shirt.
“She’s gonna destroy us,” she cried. “She’s gonna send you to prison and take Noah. Ethan, what are we gonna do?”
Ethan held her tight, his mind racing a million miles an hour. His mom had played her hand. She’d shown him her weapon. Now he had to show her his.
He pulled out his phone. Jake had sent three texts while he was in the living room.
Got the license plate. Guy’s name is Victor Hale. Ex-pharmacist, lost his license for selling prescription meds out of his trunk.
Pills are temazepam. Strong sedative. Long-term use causes memory loss, confusion, organ damage. Perfect for making someone look crazy.
Also… found your dad. He’s alive. Lives in Phoenix. Has been trying to contact you for 20 years. Your mom blocked every call, every letter, every email. Told him you wanted nothing to do with him.
Ethan stared at the screen. A plan started to form in his head. Crazy. Risky. But it just might work.
“We’re not gonna let her win,” he said, kissing the top of Claire’s head. “She wants to play dirty? Fine. We play dirtier.”
May you like
He called Jake back.
“Book me two tickets to Phoenix,” he said. “First thing tomorrow. And get my dad on the phone. Tell him his son is finally ready to listen.”
