“Good.”
“The dishwasher is full.”
“I know.”
“I can unload it.”
“No.”
She would smile weakly.
Then one morning Ethan walked into the nursery and found her sitting in the rocking chair, sunlight spilling across her stomach.
She was doing nothing.
Just sitting.
He leaned against the doorway.
“What?”
She smiled.
“I’m practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Not being useful.”
His throat tightened.
“You’re doing great.”
She laughed.
A real laugh.
Small.
But real.
For a few days, Ethan let himself believe the worst was over.
Then the certified letter arrived.
It was addressed to Olivia.
From an attorney in Plano.
She opened it at the kitchen table.
Ethan watched the color leave her face.
“What?”
She handed him the page.
The letter accused Olivia of elder abuse.
Financial manipulation.
Coercive isolation.
It claimed she had forced Ethan to evict his dependent mother without notice.
Attached were screenshots.
Messages allegedly sent by Olivia.
Cruel messages.
Threats.
I’m going to make Ethan choose me.
Once the baby comes, none of you will matter.
You should start looking for somewhere to live.
Olivia stared at the pages.
“I never sent these.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“They’re fake.”
“I know.”
The same style.
The same trick.
Screenshots designed to look real.
This time, however, Diane had gone further.
She had hired a lawyer.
Ethan called one of his own.
Her name was Rachel Kim, a former college friend who specialized in civil litigation.
He sent everything.
Rachel called back within an hour.
“These screenshots alone don’t prove much,” she said. “But I need to ask you something uncomfortable.”
“Ask.”
“Does your mother have access to any old devices? Computers? Tablets? Phones where you or Olivia were logged in?”
Ethan thought.
Then remembered.
An old MacBook.
His previous phone.
A tablet Olivia had given Diane when hers broke.
And the storage unit.
His stomach tightened.
“Maybe.”
“Find out.”
That afternoon, Ethan searched the home office.
Nothing.
Then he checked his old device list.
A MacBook Pro he had not used in years showed a recent login.
Location: Frisco.
Two months earlier.
He stared at the screen.
That laptop had supposedly been donated.
By Diane.
He called the storage facility again.
This time, Rachel handled the legal process.
Two days later, they learned the unit inventory included electronics, boxes of household files, and personal property.
The attorney secured an order allowing inspection because Ethan could prove some of the stored items belonged to him.
They went on a Friday morning.
Olivia stayed home.
Rachel accompanied Ethan.
The storage facility sat behind a row of auto shops, baking in the Texas heat.
The metal door rattled upward.
Dust floated through the beam of fluorescent light.
Inside were boxes.
Dozens.
Old Christmas decorations.
Furniture.
Clothing.
And electronics.
Ethan found the MacBook in a plastic bin beneath blankets.
He opened it.
Charged it from a portable battery.
The login still accepted an old password.
Inside the downloads folder were screenshot templates.
Edited conversations.
Photos of Olivia.
Copies of Ethan’s signature.
Scanned bank statements.
Medical documents.
Ethan’s hands began to tremble.
Then Rachel opened a folder labeled simply:
CARTER.
Inside were subfolders.
Vanessa.
Courtney.
Madison.
Olivia.
Ethan.
And one labeled MICHAEL.
Ethan stopped breathing.
Michael.
His father.
The man who had died seven years earlier.
Officially from a heart attack at fifty-nine.
Ethan clicked.
There were insurance documents.
Emails.
Hospital records.
And screenshots of messages between Diane and a man Ethan did not recognize.
Rachel read over his shoulder.
The messages were ten years old.
The stranger’s name was Paul Hendricks.
Diane had written:
Michael changed the beneficiary again.
Then:
If he divorces me, I lose everything.
Another:
The doctor says his pressure is dangerous when he skips the tablets.
Ethan’s skin prickled.
Rachel whispered, “Ethan.”
He scrolled.
The next message made his stomach turn.
He thinks he keeps forgetting them.
A reply from Paul:
You’re playing with fire.
Diane:
I’m protecting my future.
Ethan stumbled backward.
“No.”
Rachel grabbed his arm.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
More records.
Prescription refill dates.
Insurance changes.
A life insurance policy increased four months before Michael Carter died.
