Chapter 4 - The Dinner Party Trap
The dinner party was Margaret’s idea. “A little housewarming,” she’d said, batting her fake eyelashes at Daniel over breakfast three days later. “Just a few close friends. To help Claire feel settled.”
I knew what it really was the second she handed me the guest list. Dr. Eleanor Hale, the fake psychiatrist. Richard Voss, a family lawyer who specialized in guardianship cases. Maria Gonzalez, a social worker from DC Child and Family Services who specialized in “adult wellness checks.” All three names were in Lila’s storage unit files. All three had been paid off by Daniel and Margaret before.
It was a trial run. A chance for them to perform for their paid witnesses, to paint me as a grieving, unstable mess who couldn’t be trusted with her own money, her own house, her own life.
I played along. I spent the day cooking—lemon garlic salmon, roasted asparagus, the chocolate lava cake Daniel said was his favorite, all from the recipe book Mom had left me. I wore the soft blue sweater Daniel had bought me for our 10th anniversary, the one that made me look young and fragile and easy to break. I let my hair fall in loose waves around my face, no makeup, just a little mascara, like I’d forgotten to put the rest on. I even skipped my morning coffee, letting myself feel a little shaky, a little foggy, just like they expected.
Thomas texted me at 5 p.m., an hour before the guests arrived: Wear the wire. It’s in the left pocket of the sweater you’re wearing. I’m in the white van across the street. Recording everything.
I patted my pocket, feeling the tiny, bumpy shape of the wire against my palm, and took a deep breath.
The guests arrived right on time. Dr. Hale was in her 50s, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, a crisp white blazer, a fake smile so wide it looked painful. Mr. Voss was a sleazy guy in a too-tight suit who kept staring at my chest like I wasn’t even there. Ms. Gonzalez was quiet, taking notes in a little notebook the second she walked in the door, her eyes darting around the house like she was already looking for signs of instability.
Dinner was a masterclass in performance. Margaret spent the first hour telling stories about how “stressed” I’d been since Dad died—how I’d forgotten to pay the electric bill, how I’d gotten lost driving to the grocery store, how I’d cried for two hours last week because I burned toast. All lies. All carefully crafted to make me look like I was falling apart. Daniel sat next to me, his hand resting on my knee, squeezing it every time I tried to speak, like he was afraid I’d say something that would ruin their act.
I played my part perfectly. I laughed too loud at bad jokes, I stared off into space for long stretches, I “accidentally” spilled a glass of pinot noir down the front of Daniel’s shirt halfway through the meal.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, grabbing a napkin, my voice wobbly. “I’m just so tired lately. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Dr. Hale leaned forward, her pen hovering over her notebook. “Have you been having trouble sleeping, Claire?” she asked, her voice soft, concerned, like she actually cared. “Racing thoughts? Mood swings?”
I nodded, letting a single tear roll down my cheek. “Sometimes I think I’m going crazy,” I whispered, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Margaret and Daniel exchange a quick, triumphant smile. “I hear things. In the walls. I think someone’s watching me.”
It wasn’t even a lie. Not really.
Mid-dessert, Daniel got up to get more wine from the cellar. I followed him, pretending I needed to use the powder room, and when he bent down to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, I slipped my hand into the back pocket of his khakis, pulling out the crumpled receipt I’d seen peeking out when he’d leaned over the table earlier. I stuffed it into my bra before he turned around, my heart hammering.
When we got back to the table, the conversation had shifted to “treatment options.” Dr. Hale was talking about a “lovely private clinic in Bethesda” with “round-the-clock care,” Mr. Voss was explaining how “simple” the guardianship process was, Ms. Gonzalez was nodding along like it was the most normal thing in the world to lock a 39-year-old woman up for no reason.
I smiled, wiping the fake tears off my face, and reached for my wine glass. “That all sounds so nice,” I said, my voice soft. “I’m so lucky to have all of you to take care of me.”
The party broke up at 10 p.m. I stood in the doorway, waving goodbye, a soft smile on my face, until the last car pulled out of the driveway. Then I locked the door, leaned against it, and pulled the casino receipt out of my bra.
It was from the MGM National Harbor, dated two weeks prior. Total losses: $127,489.20. Signed: Daniel Morgan.
I walked into the kitchen, where Daniel and Margaret were cleaning up the plates, laughing quietly about how “easy” I’d been. I dropped the receipt on the counter between them, the paper crinkling loud in the quiet room.
“Nice party,” I said, my voice cold, no trace of the fragile wife I’d been an hour before. “Next time, invite the pit boss. He’s got a bigger stake in this than Dr. Hale does.”
Their smiles dropped. For half a second, I saw the real them—cold, angry, dangerous—before Margaret recovered, her face softening into fake concern. “Sweetheart, what is that? Where did you get—”
I cut her off, turning on my heel and walking up the stairs. “Don’t worry about it,” I called over my shoulder. “I’m just tired. Going to bed.”
I locked the bedroom door behind me, pulled the wire out of my pocket, and texted Thomas: Got it all. The testimony, the debt, everything. They think they’ve won.
May you like
He texted back 10 seconds later: Good. Because tomorrow, we start making them lose.
I was just about to plug my phone in when the bedroom door handle jiggled. Soft, at first, then harder. Then Daniel’s voice, low and dangerous, through the wood: “Claire. Open the door. We need to talk about you getting help.”
