Chapter 10 - The Arrival of the Yellow Envelope|
The loud, crisp audio of the video echoed through the narrow hallway.
“Oliver is crying because his mother is weak and useless... Get down and clean every piece. Then you can hold him.”
Vivian stared at the glowing screen.
For the first time in my entire life, I saw my mother’s face completely freeze.
There was no tearful denial. There was no theatrical gasp. The polite, soft-spoken grandmother vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, flat expressionlessness that was infinitely more terrifying. Her eyes hardened into two dark chips of obsidian.
“You put a camera in my space?” Vivian asked, her voice dropping all pretense of gentleness, turning dry and cold as dust.
“It’s my house, Vivian,” I spat, stepping inches from her face. “It’s my wife. It’s my son. You are a sadistic, sick monster, and you are going to pack your bags and get out of my sight before I call the police.”
Vivian let out a short, sharp sneer.
“Call the police?” she mocked, folding her arms over her floral apron. “And tell them what, Daniel? That an elderly grandmother was trying to manage an unstable, incompetent postpartum mother? Who do you think the neighbors will believe? Who do you think your father will believe?”
She took a step toward me, her eyes gleaming with absolute arrogance.
“I have spent thirty years building my reputation in this town,” Vivian whispered viciously. “I have ten friends who will testify under oath that Emma has been acting paranoid for weeks. You have a little video clip taken out of context. You can't destroy me.”
“She doesn't have to,” a sharp voice rang out from behind me.
Natalie stepped around my shoulder, holding up the yellowed, battered envelope.
The moment Vivian’s eyes landed on that faded yellow paper, every drop of blood drained from her face.
Her arrogant posture collapsed instantly. Her hands began to shake so violently that the silver tea tray in her grip rattled loudly against her apron before slipping from her fingers and crashing onto the floorboard, spilling hot tea everywhere.
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“You...” Vivian choked out, her voice barely a rattle in her throat. “Where did you get that?”
“I stole it from your locked filing cabinet the day I moved out ten years ago,” Natalie said, her voice dropping into a lethal, steady rhythm. “You should have burned it when you had the chance, Mom.”
