Chapter 3 - The Cold House
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The funeral concluded in a state of absolute, surreal horror. We buried my beautiful boys while the woman who poisoned them sat in a police interrogation room.
When the town car finally pulled into the driveway of our home, I didn't wait for Trevor to open my door. I unbuckled Emma from her car seat, scooped her into my arms, and walked up the front steps.
Trevor followed me inside, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looked like a ghost haunting his own life.
"Claire," Trevor choked out, collapsing onto the bottom step of the staircase. "I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know she was capable of that."
I stopped in the hallway. The house felt entirely different now. It wasn't a home; it was a crime scene. Margaret’s words echoed in my mind. The air vents. The hidden microphones. We had never been alone.
"You didn't know because you never wanted to look," I said, my voice dead and hollow. "I told you she was dangerous. I told you she was too controlling. And you told me I was being overly emotional."
"She's my mother," he wept, burying his face in his hands.
"And they were your sons," I replied coldly. "You left them alone in the kitchen with her. You promised me you would feed them."
Trevor flinched as if I had struck him. A fresh wave of agonizing sobs tore from his throat.
"Pack a bag," I whispered, holding Emma tightly against my chest.
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. "What?"
"I am leaving," I stated, the finality of the decision solidifying in my bones. "I am taking Emma to my sister’s house. I will be filing for divorce in the morning. If you try to stop me, or if you ever try to force me to interact with your family again, I will destroy you in court."
"Claire, please! I have nothing left!"
May you like
"Neither do I," I said.
I turned and walked upstairs to pack, leaving my husband weeping on the floor of a house that had just become a tomb.
