Chapter 8 - A Story With Two Endings
For the next forty-eight hours, Brianna tried to become the victim of a story I had lived through.
She gave an interview to a local neighborhood blogger, saying she had rushed over after I threatened to harm myself.
She said the twins' premature delivery was a tragic accident caused by stress.
She said her family was "protecting Ryan from lies."
The words left me numb.
Then I remembered the nurse who had asked whether someone hurt me and recorded the answer before the surgery.
Brianna hadn't been in that room to edit it.
Ortiz returned with an evidence technician who asked permission to examine my phone's messages and the screenshots I had saved.
I handed it over for a limited extraction with the attorney's help.
Ryan offered his phone too.
“Mom had admin access to our camera system?” I asked.
“Only for emergency settings,” he said. “I gave it to her when we went to Maine last summer.”
“Then Diane could delete a recording.”
“She might have been able to,” he admitted.
Naomi joined us on a video call.
She had placed additional verification on the trust.
She also sent the recording of the impersonation call to investigators.
A woman with a breathy voice had introduced herself as Emma Carter—the name I'd used before I married Ryan.
“I need the funds released today,” the caller said. “It's a family emergency.”
Naomi asked for the trustee authorization number.
The caller swore and hung up.
Brianna's voice, I thought.
But I knew enough now to let trained people determine that instead of treating a hunch as proof.
That afternoon, a hospital administrator came to see me with a security officer.
Someone had phoned the NICU desk claiming to be my mother and demanded to know when Sophie would be discharged.
My mother had been dead for twelve years.
“Did they get any information?” I asked.
“No,” the administrator said. “But they left a message for you.”
May you like
She placed a piece of paper in front of me.
Drop the complaint before somebody decides you're unfit to take those babies home.
