Chapter 8: Preston's Last Move
He called me that evening.
I was in the hospital room with Sophie asleep beside me, the lights low, the television off.
I saw his name on the screen and I answered because I wanted to hear what he would say.
"Evelyn." His voice was composed.
Controlled.
The voice he used in meetings.
"I think we need to talk before this gets any further out of hand."
"It's already out of hand, Preston."
"It doesn't have to be.
Listen to me." A pause.
"What happened last night was — it escalated beyond what I intended.
Sophie wasn't supposed to get h*rt.
You have to believe that."
"What was she supposed to get?"
Silence.
"The phone was supposed to be found quietly," he said.
"A private conversation.
Not—"
"You grabbed her jacket in front of two hundred people."
"I lost my temper.
I admit that.
But the original plan was never to h*rt anyone." His voice shifted slightly, finding the tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable.
"Evelyn, if this goes to court, it destroys the family.
The estate gets tied up in legal proceedings for years.
Mom and Dad are dragged into it.
Sophie is dragged into it.
She'll have to testify.
Is that what you want for her?"
There it was.
"You're threatening to make my daughter testify," I said, "as a reason for me to drop the charges."
"I'm not threatening anything.
I'm being realistic."
"The hotel has twelve camera angles, Preston.
The police have the burner phone.
They have your messages to Gerald Foss.
They have Ruth Halden's statement.
And they have Dad's statement, which he gave this afternoon." A pause.
"All of it."
The silence on his end was different this time.
"Dad spoke to them," he said.
Flat.
Not a question.
"He told them about the amendment.
About the billing statement.
About what you told him before the ceremony." I kept my voice calm.
"You built a plan that depended on everyone staying quiet.
Marcus didn't stay quiet.
Ruth Halden didn't stay quiet.
The hotel didn't stay quiet.
And Dad didn't stay quiet."
"Evelyn—"
"You should talk to your attorney," I said.
"Not to me."
"If you do this," he said, and his voice changed — the composure cracking at the edges — "you will never be part of this family again.
I will make sure of it.
Mom will never speak to you.
You'll lose everything."
I looked at Sophie sleeping.
Her small face.
The white bandage at her temple.
"Preston," I said.
"I lost the family the night you put your phone in my daughter's pocket.
I just didn't know it yet."
May you like
I ended the call.
He didn't call back.
