Chapter 3
The next few days were strange.
Quiet. Too quiet. No Denise yelling. No rules about breathing or showering or talking about Mom. Ava smiled for the first time in months. She ate cereal without counting the pieces. She left her books on the couch. She talked about Mom at dinner.
And my dad? He was home. He took time off work. He made breakfast. He drove us to school. He sat with Ava at night when she had nightmares. He sat with me when I couldn't sleep.
But underneath the peace, there was tension. Because Denise was gone, but she wasn't gone. She was calling. Texting. Emailing. Threatening.
She'd hired a lawyer. A big one. She was suing for divorce. For alimony. For half of everything. And she was claiming my dad was abusive. That I was a troubled teen. That Ava was lying. That the tapes were doctored.
"She's trying to turn it around," my dad said at the kitchen table one night. He was going through the private investigator's reports. "She's saying I set her up. That I abused her. That the girls are afraid of me. It's all lies. But her lawyer is good. Very good."
I looked at the reports. The investigator had found more than just the abuse tapes. Denise had a gambling problem. She'd been going to casinos in West Virginia. She'd lost thousands. She'd been taking out loans in my dad's name. She'd even opened credit cards in my name—my name, at sixteen.
"She's been stealing my identity?" I said. My voice was cold.
My dad nodded. "Three credit cards. Over twelve thousand dollars in charges. Clothes. Jewelry. Hotel rooms. Casino chips."
"Hotel rooms?" Ava said. She was only eight, but she was listening. "Who was she with?"
My dad didn't answer. But the investigator's report did. Photos. Denise with another man. A man named Frank. Married. Rich. They'd been seeing each other for over a year. Meeting in hotels. In casinos. In our house—when my dad was at work and we were at school.
I felt sick. She'd brought a man into our house. Into our home. Where we slept. Where we ate. Where my mother's picture hung on the wall.
"She's not just abusive," I said. "She's a criminal. Fraud. Identity theft. Adultery. Gambling. She should be in jail."
My dad looked at me. "I'm working on it. The police are looking at the identity theft. But it takes time. And Denise—she's not going down without a fight."
He was right. She wasn't.
A week later, we got the subpoena. Denise was requesting custody. Of us. Of me and Ava. She claimed we were "in danger" living with our father. She claimed we were "traumatized" and needed her "care."
It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. But her lawyer was good. And the family court system was slow. And there would be a hearing. And we would have to testify.
Ava was terrified. "I don't want to see her," she said, crying. "I don't want to talk about her. I want her to go away."
My dad held her. "She's not going to get custody. Not with the tapes. Not with the evidence. I promise you."
But I could see the worry in his eyes. Because nothing was guaranteed. Not in court. Not with a good liar like Denise.
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And then, something happened that changed everything.
The investigator found something. Something big. Something about my mother's death.
