Chapter 7 - The Unraveling of Nicole
By Wednesday afternoon, the cracks in Patricia and Nicole’s fragile alliance began to split wide open. Toxic people can only maintain unity when they have a common victim to torment; once the victim is out of reach, they inevitably turn their venom on each other.
I was sitting in our living room with my lawyer, Sarah Jenkins, finalizing the paperwork for an emergency restraining order, when my phone rang from an unknown local number.
I put it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Clara? Is Ethan there? Please don’t hang up.”
It was Nicole. But the smug, entitled brat from two days ago was gone. Her voice was cracked, shrill, and vibrating with panic.
Ethan leaned in over the phone. “What do you want, Nicole?”
“Ethan! You have to help me!” Nicole sobbed, the sound of traffic and shouting audible in the background. “Mama has gone completely crazy! The motel kicked us out because she caused a scene at the front desk over the continental breakfast, and now she’s demanding I give her all of my savings to pay for an Airbnb! She took my car keys!”
“You have your own money, Nicole,” Ethan said coldly. “Use it.”
“I don’t have any money!” she wailed, abandoning her pride entirely. “I lied! David didn't kick me out because of a misunderstanding. He dumped me because he found out the baby isn't even his! He cut off my credit cards! I have four hundred dollars to my name, Ethan! Four hundred dollars!”
Ethan rubbed his temples, showing no surprise. “And you expected Clara and me to finance your life, your lies, and your baby while you treated my wife like a servant in her own home?”
“Mama told me to do it!” Nicole screamed, turning on Patricia with startling speed. “She told me that if we broke you and Clara up, you would have to take care of us! She said Clara was weak and that if we pushed her hard enough, she’d leave, and then the house would be ours! It was her idea, Ethan! All of it! The lamb, the insults, everything!”
From the background of the call, Patricia’s muffled, enraged voice shrieked: *‘Give me that phone, you ungrateful little whore!’*
A scuffle ensued, followed by the sound of the phone crashing to the pavement, a stream of vicious profanities, and the call abruptly disconnecting.
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Sarah Jenkins, my attorney, raised an eyebrow from across the coffee table. She tapped her pen against her legal pad. “Well,” Sarah said with a calm, predatory smile. “That phone call was recorded under our state's one-party consent law. That gives us premeditation, intent to inflict emotional distress, and conspiracy to commit constructive eviction. Your mother-in-law didn't just throw a bowl, Clara. She just handed us a civil lawsuit on a silver platter.”
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