Chapter 4: What She Had Been Telling People for Years
Patrice didn't put the phone away.
She scrolled slowly, the way someone does when they're deciding how much further to go.
Then she looked up at Adrian.
"There's more," she said.
"If you want to see it."
Camille crossed the room in three steps.
"Whatever that is, it's private—"
"It's a group chat," Patrice said.
"You added me to it.
Two years ago."
She turned the phone toward Adrian.
This message thread was longer.
Much longer.
Camille's name at the top, a group of eight or nine contacts, most of whom Adrian didn't recognize.
But two names he did.
His sister, Carol.
And his colleague from work, James, whose wife had been friendly with Camille since the wedding.
Adrian scrolled.
The messages went back eighteen months.
*She's at it again.
Followed Adrian around the whole dinner asking about his old photos.
It's suffocating.*
*I've tried everything.
She refuses to accept that this household has changed.*
*Honestly I think she does it on purpose.
To make me look bad in front of him.*
*I've started asking her to stay upstairs when we have people over.
It's the only way I can breathe.*
*He doesn't see it.
He never sees it.
She has him completely wrapped.*
*Sometimes I think the only way this works is if she's not here at all.*
Adrian stopped scrolling.
He read that last line again.
*Sometimes I think the only way this works is if she's not here at all.*
He looked at Camille.
Camille had gone very still.
"That was venting," she said.
"That is what women do when they're struggling.
We talk to each other.
You're not supposed to—"
"My sister is in this group," Adrian said.
A beat.
"Carol was supportive—"
"My sister was in a group chat where you said my daughter shouldn't be here."
"I didn't say it like that—"
"I just read what you said."
Camille's voice came back sharper now, the careful composure giving way to something older and harder underneath it.
"You don't understand what it's been like.
Living in a house where your husband's daughter from another woman watches every move you make.
Where she has photographs of her mother on the walls.
Where everyone who visits asks about her first.
I came into this marriage and I was always second—"
"She lost her mother," Adrian said.
The room went quiet in a different way.
Camille blinked.
"She was eleven years old," Adrian said.
"When her mother passed.
She has photographs on the wall because her mother is gone." He stopped.
"That is why the photographs are there."
Camille's mouth opened.
Closed.
"I didn't—" she started.
"You've been in this house for three years.
You knew that."
"It still affected me—"
"And instead of talking to me about it, you built a group chat.
You recruited my sister.
You spent eighteen months telling people that my daughter was the problem." His voice dropped to nearly nothing.
"While she was upstairs.
Waiting for things to get better."
Daniel had moved to stand beside Patrice.
Neither of them spoke.
The older woman by the kitchen had her hand over her mouth.
Naomi had heard all of it.
She hadn't moved.
She was looking at the floor again, but her jaw was set differently now.
Not shame.
Something more like the final piece of something she'd always known but never had confirmed.
Camille tried again.
"I have never been cruel to her.
I have never raised my voice.
I have never—"
"You told people to ignore her in her own home," Adrian said.
"You excluded her from meals.
You sent messages calling her a problem to people who come and sit at my table." He looked at her for a long moment.
"You didn't need to raise your voice, Camille.
You were very quiet about all of it.
That's what made it so easy to miss."
Camille turned to the room.
"I'd like everyone to understand that this is a private family matter and I'd appreciate—"
"Carol called me," Patrice said.
"Three weeks ago.
She was upset about the group.
She said she'd been added without understanding what it was for.
She said she'd stopped responding when she realized." She paused.
"She told me to keep the screenshots."
Camille looked at her.
"You've been holding onto this."
"I've been waiting," Patrice said simply.
"To see if it stopped."
"And?"
Patrice looked at Naomi.
Then back at Camille.
"You sent an instruction to ignore a nineteen-year-old girl tonight.
Three hours before her father's birthday party.
So no.
It didn't stop."
The room had arranged itself, without anyone deciding to, into something that looked like a verdict.
Camille stood in the center of it.
She squared her shoulders.
"Fine," she said.
"Fine.
You all want to make me the villain of this evening, go ahead." She looked at Adrian.
"But we are not finished.
Not even close."
She walked toward the hallway.
Then she stopped.
She turned back, and when she looked at Naomi, her voice was almost quiet enough to be mistaken for something gentle.
"Ask her," Camille said to Adrian, "about the conversation she had with your mother last Christmas.
Ask her what she said about me.
Then tell me who the real problem is."
Then she walked upstairs.
May you like
The party was over.
Nobody reached for their drinks.
