Chapter 5 - The Flying Monkeys and the Smear Campaign
By nightfall, the counter-attack began.
When a narcissist loses control of their target, their immediate instinct is to control the narrative. Diane and Carla were masters of the craft.
It started with a Facebook post from Carla. She posted a black-and-white photo of my mother sitting alone by the Christmas tree, looking fragile, frail, and heartbroken.
*“Some people let bitterness and jealousy poison their hearts so deeply that they will destroy an entire family during the holidays,”* the caption read. *“My mother worked her entire life to give us everything. To watch her be publicly humiliated, attacked, and blackmailed by someone who was given nothing but love is a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone. Please pray for our family during this devastating trial. Narcissistic abuse comes from where you least expect it.”*
Within two hours, the post had over a hundred reactions, fifty comments, and several shares.
Cousins I hadn't spoken to in three years chimed in:
*“Nora has always been resentful of Carla’s success.”*
*“Diane is an angel. How could anyone hurt her like this?”*
*“Praying for healing. Blood should be thicker than this.”*
Then came the phone calls from extended family—the "flying monkeys" deployed to pressure the rebellious daughter back into line.
My phone, which had been buzzing nonstop, rang with the name of Aunt Beverly—my father’s older sister. Unlike Diane, Beverly had always been somewhat distant, living two states away, but she was considered the matriarch of the Vance side of the family.
I hesitated, then swiped to answer. If I hid, they would assume guilt.
“Hello, Aunt Beverly.”
“Nora,” Beverly’s voice came through, sharp, imperious, and dripping with disappointment. “I just spent forty-five minutes on the phone with your mother. She is completely hysterical. She told me you made wild, slanderous accusations at the club today and threatened to send your own sister’s husband to prison. Have you lost your mind?”
I took a deep breath, keeping my temper locked down. “Beverly, did my mother mention *why* I threatened legal action?”
“She said there was an administrative error with your father’s estate that Frank Reynolds was already handling, and you blew it completely out of proportion because of some childish dispute over Christmas presents!”
“It wasn't an administrative error, Beverly,” I said, my voice razor-sharp. “Diane forged my signature on a legal financial document and stole forty-five thousand dollars from Leo’s college account to buy Carla a luxury car. She has drained every penny my father left for his grandson.”
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
“...What did you say?” Beverly’s tone shifted, the imperiousness cracking.
“I have the transaction logs from Reynolds Financial. I have the wire transfers directly to Silverwood Auto Group. I have the signed custodial document with my name forged in Diane’s handwriting. And yesterday, while Carla’s three kids opened thirty-six presents, Leo didn't receive a single pair of socks. She didn't even buy him a card. Did Diane mention that part?”
Beverly was silent for nearly ten seconds. When she spoke again, the sharpness was gone, replaced by a deep, weary sigh.
“Richard... my brother Richard... always worried about this,” Beverly muttered, almost to herself.
My heart jumped. “What do you mean?”
“Richard knew Diane’s spending was out of control,” Beverly revealed quietly. “He knew Carla was a financial bottomless pit. Two months before he had his stroke, he called me from his office in tears. He said he had made special provisions in his private estate because he was terrified Diane would bleed everything dry for Carla.”
“Private estate?” I stood up from my kitchen stool. “Beverly, what are you talking about? Frank Reynolds told me everything went into the master family trust.”
“Frank Reynolds is in Diane’s pocket, Nora,” Beverly said bluntly. “He has been for twenty years. If you want the truth about what your father left behind, you need to stop talking to Frank. You need to contact Daniel Vance. Richard’s cousin. The probate attorney in Oakmont.”
“Daniel Vance?” I scrambled for a pen and a notepad.
“Yes. Richard hired Daniel specifically so Diane couldn’t interfere. Daniel holds Richard’s true last will and testament, not the boilerplate nonsense Frank drafted for the family trust. I stayed out of this because Diane told everyone you were doing fine and didn't want to be bothered. But if she is stealing from that little boy... Richard would turn over in his grave.”
“Thank you, Beverly,” I whispered, tears of relief pricking my eyes.
“Don't thank me yet,” Beverly warned. “Get a real lawyer, Nora. Because if Richard did what I think he did, Diane and Carla don't just owe you forty-five thousand dollars. They owe you half of everything they’re sitting on.”
I hung up the phone, my heart pounding like a war drum.
I looked over at Leo. He was sitting on the living room rug, surrounded by his planetary books, humming a little tune as he drew a picture of a rocket ship with a red marker.
*“For Leo,”* he had written in crooked, seven-year-old handwriting at the top of the page.
I picked up the pen and dialed the number for Daniel Vance’s law firm in Oakmont.
The game was changing.
Diane and Carla thought they were defending a forty-five-thousand-dollar theft with a petty social media campaign.
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They had no idea that the foundation beneath their feet was about to crack wide open.
***
