Chapter 12 - The Smear Campaign

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As the police officers escorted Eleanor down the driveway toward a waiting rideshare vehicle, she turned back toward the house. Her face was twisted with pure, unbridled hatred.
"You will regret this, Julian!" she screamed, her voice echoing down the quiet suburban street as neighbors began opening their front doors to watch the spectacle. "You sacrificed your own mother for a weak, broken woman! You are dead to me!"
I stood on the front porch, my hands tucked casually into my pockets, watching the car pull away until its taillights disappeared around the corner.
"No, Eleanor," I whispered into the morning breeze. "You were dead to us the moment you touched my wife."
However, a narcissist like Eleanor Vance does not go quietly into the night.
By 3:00 PM that afternoon, Eleanor initiated her retaliatory strike. She went live on her personal Facebook and Instagram pages, sitting in a luxurious hotel room downtown, wearing a black silk blouse and dabbing fake tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
"My dear friends," she sobbed to her tens of thousands of online followers and high-society acquaintances. "It breaks my heart to share this... but my son Julian and his wife have fallen into a dark, paranoid delusion. Today, while I was simply trying to care for my newborn grandson, Julian violently threw me out into the street. They are keeping my grandson hostage, refusing to let me see him... please pray for my family's sanity during this terrible time..."
Within an hour, the post racked up hundreds of sympathetic comments from her country club friends, church members, and distant relatives.
"Oh Eleanor, I am so sorry! How could they be so ungrateful?!" *
"Clara always seemed unstable... poor Julian must be under her spell!" *
"Praying for you, Eleanor! You are such a loving grandmother!" *
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Sitting beside Clara’s bed while the home nurse administered an IV saline drip, I watched the comments pour in on my phone screen.
I smiled. She had walked straight into the ultimate trap.