Crystal clicked her tongue. “Don’t make this ugly.”
“It’s already ugly,” I said, and ended the call.
Two days later, a letter arrived from the Washingtons’ attorneys implying “theft.” They wanted fear. They wanted sweat. They wanted me picturing police lights and courtroom humiliation.
So I returned the necklace Terrence had bought me for our anniversary.
I had receipts. Photos. Proof. I returned it anyway.
Because I wanted to see how far cruelty would go when it believed it was safe.
A week later, Crystal posted a photo online: her wearing the necklace at a gala, champagne flute in hand, captioned: Getting back what belongs to the family.
Her friends loved it. Hearts. Laughing emojis.
And Beverly—Beverly called my clinic pretending to be a patient’s relative.
She told my supervisor, in a voice thick with fake concern, that I was unstable, that I shouldn’t be working with “vulnerable people” so soon after my husband’s death.
My supervisor listened, then walked into the nurse’s station and said, “You’re doing great. Ignore the noise.”