Chapter 3 - The Trojan Horse
By noon, Phoebe had put together an emergency package of injunctions, fraud notifications, and police report drafts. But I told her to hold off on filing them with the authorities for just twenty-four hours.
“If we drop the hammer with the police right now, he panics, he gets a defense attorney, and he drags this out in civil and criminal court for years,” I told Phoebe over the phone as I sat in the driver’s seat of my car outside a local hardware store. “I want him to feel secure. I want him to think he has won completely. I want him to invite Chloe into my house, unpack her boxes, and settle in. Only then do we pull the rug out from under them.”
“Clara, that’s playing with fire,” Phoebe warned. “What’s your play?”
“Just trust me, Phoebe. Have the papers ready for my signature tomorrow morning. Right now, I’m going shopping.”
I bought three things: a burner smartphone, a portable indoor security camera kit, and a high-end digital voice recorder.
That afternoon, I drove back to my own neighborhood. I parked three blocks away, keeping my car shaded beneath the sprawling branches of an old live oak tree. The house looked peaceful from the outside. The pristine lawn, the flower beds I had planted with Leo when he was just two years old, the white porch swing.
Using my spare physical key—which Julian hadn't thought to demand from me in his arrogant haste—I let myself through the back garage door at 3:00 PM while I knew they were out.
The house was already changing. In the entryway, a pair of expensive designer high heels that certainly didn't belong to me were tossed haphazardly by the shoe rack. Laughter echoed faintly from the master bedroom upstairs—Julian and Chloe.
I moved with the silent speed of a ghost. In less than three minutes, I had placed two tiny, magnetic wireless cameras in strategic locations: one atop the kitchen cabinets facing the living room and entryway, and one tucked discreetly behind a stack of books on the den bookshelf. I paired them instantly to my new burner phone.
As I slipped back out through the garage, I heard Chloe’s voice drift down the stairs, light and carefree.
“Are you sure she won't come back and make a scene?” she asked, giggling.
May you like
Julian’s voice replied, dripping with utter contempt: “Clara? Please. She’s completely broken. She doesn't have the fight left in her. That house is ours now, Chloe. We can finally start our real life.”
I sat in my car down the street, staring at the live video feed streaming crisply onto my burner phone screen. A slow, terrifying smile spread across my face. Let them believe it.
