Chapter 4 - THE PUPPET MASTER’S TRAP
At 1:15 PM, the phone rang again.
This time, it wasn't my mother. It wasn't Aunt Clara.
The display on Theo’s phone read: *Ramona.*
Theo looked down at the device buzzing on the kitchen island. He had returned from the job site early, having left his crew with strict orders for the weekend. The smell of cedar sawdust still clung to his flannel sleeves.
"Put it on the mount," I said.
We had set up my secondary camera on a small tripod beside the fruit bowl, its lens aimed down at the island, recording in 4K. My laptop sat beside it, running an audio capture interface through a directional shotgun mic hidden behind the paper towel holder. Indiana was a one-party consent state for audio recording. Ramona had spent thirty-one years weaponizing the lack of witnesses; she was about to learn what happens when every frequency is captured at 24-bit/96kHz.
Theo tapped the green icon and pressed the speaker button.
"Theo?"
Her voice was honey over broken glass. That delicate, breathless vibrato she used whenever she wanted to sound like she was speaking from inside a sanctuary.
"I’m here, Ramona," Theo said, his voice flat, completely devoid of inflection.
A soft, theatrical sigh came through the small speaker. "Oh, thank God. I’ve been sick to my stomach all morning. Did your parents call you? Dad told me he called Eileen. I begged him not to, Theo. I told him, *Dad, she’s fragile right now, she can't take this kind of shock,* but you know how he is. He just wants what’s best for the family."
"He called," Theo said. "He told me you two talked."
"We did," Ramona said, her tone dropping into an intimate murmur that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I had to tell him something, Theo. Nora was already asking questions after I accidentally let it slip that you texted me last night. I couldn't let them think you were the bad guy. I took the blame. I told them we’ve had feelings for each other for months, but we were trying to be noble about it."
Theo looked across the counter at me. His eyes were wide with a disgust so pure it was almost awe.
"You told your father that you and I have had feelings for months?" Theo asked slowly, enunciating every syllable.
"It was the only way to protect you!" Ramona insisted, her voice rising in pitch, perfectly simulating defensive devotion. "If they think you just walked out because you couldn't handle Eileen’s moods, Dad would cut you off from the commercial contracts at his development firm. You know how he controls the board there. But if they think it's... if they think it's *us*... Dad understands that. Dad respects ambition, Theo. He respects someone who chooses a partner who can actually help his career."
"And what about Julian?" Theo asked.
There was a half-second pause on the line. A tiny hitch in the performance where the tape had to be spliced.
"Julian is... complicated," Ramona said dismissively. "Julian understands that family comes first. Look, Theo, we don't have to define everything today. What matters is Saturday. Mom has arranged the seating so you’re at our table. Not with Eileen. Eileen shouldn't even be there. It’ll just be humiliating for her. If she shows up, everyone will be whispering. You know how she gets when she feels judged—she’ll make that bitter, sour face, or she’ll start crying in the powder room, and then everyone will feel uncomfortable."
"And if she doesn't show up?" Theo asked.
"Then we tell everyone she’s taking some personal time," Ramona said smoothly. "We control the narrative. By next week, the divorce will just seem like a formality. I’ve already spoken to an attorney friend of Julian’s. He says if we present a unified front regarding Eileen’s history of emotional outbursts, you can get primary custody of Hazel and Owen without even going to a full hearing. Wouldn't that be better for them? A stable home with two parents who aren't constantly walking on eggshells?"
I had to bite the inside of my lip until I tasted copper to keep from screaming into the microphone.
Theo didn't flinch. His hand stayed flat on the granite, his knuckles white.
"You really thought this through, Ramona."
"I did it for us," she purred. "I’ve watched you waste twelve years being her caretaker, Theo. You deserve a woman who actually has something to offer. Meet me at the club at four on Saturday before the guests arrive. We’ll walk through the dining room together so the staff knows who’s in charge. Okay?"
"I’ll see you Saturday, Ramona," Theo said.
"Wear the charcoal suit," she added. "The one with the silk lining. It matches my dress."
Theo ended the call.
The silence that followed was heavy, ancient, and absolute.
The shotgun mic clicked as I hit the stop button on my laptop. The audio waveform sat on the screen like an EKG readout of a murder.
"Custody," I whispered, the word tasting like bile. "She’s talking to Julian’s corporate lawyers about my children."
Theo didn't answer with words. He walked out of the kitchen, down the short flight of stairs to the basement, and returned two minutes later carrying a heavy, industrial-grade metal flight case. He set it on the dining room table and popped the latches with two sharp *cracks*.
Inside, nestled in custom high-density foam, was an Epson 4K commercial laser projector—the high-lumen unit I used for commercial trade show installations and large-scale photography exhibitions. Beside it were four compact, wireless JBL studio monitors.
May you like
"We aren't going to her party to argue, Eileen," Theo said, lifting the heavy projector from its casing and setting it on the table like a piece of heavy artillery. "We’re going to give the engagement toast."
***
