Chapter 6 - The Breaking of Trevor
The Whitmore townhome on Maple Hill was silent when I let myself in through the side garage door using my emergency keypad code.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, luggage was thrown open across the king-sized bed. Designer suits, cashmere sweaters, and expensive watches were piled haphazardly into leather duffels. Trevor was standing over the mahogany vanity, pouring two fingers of single-malt scotch with a hand that rattled against the crystal glass.
He looked haggard. Deep purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes.
“Trevor,” I said from the doorway.
He flinched violently, spilling scotch across the polished wood. He spun around, dropping the glass. It thudded against the thick Persian rug.
“Claire!” he gasped, backing against the vanity. “How did you get in here? You have a restraining order against me!”
“I’m not the one violating the order, Trevor. I came to collect my passport and Noah and Caleb’s birth certificates.”
I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I kept my distance, watching his body language carefully.
Trevor swallowed hard, looking toward the open suitcase. “I’m leaving tonight. Mother’s private jet is taking me to London. Just for a couple of months. Until the press dies down.”
“London?” I asked, tilting my head. “And what about Emma? Victoria told me outside Emma’s school that you’re petitioning for full custody tonight.”
Trevor looked down at his shoes, unable to meet my eyes. “It’s the only way, Claire. If I take Emma to London, Mother won't cut us off. She’ll establish a ten-million-dollar trust for Emma’s private schooling and security. You can visit her. In the summers. With supervised visitation.”
The sheer, spineless cowardice of his voice made my skin burn.
“Supervised visitation?” I repeated, walking slowly toward him. “With my own daughter? While you live on blood money in London with the woman who murdered our sons?”
“She didn't mean to kill them!” Trevor suddenly screamed, clutching his head in his hands. “She told me! She told me she just wanted to make them sick enough so that you couldn't handle them! So you’d agree to send them to boarding nursery in Switzerland so we could focus on the company! She miscalculated the dosage! It was an accident, Claire!”
The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
I stopped three feet from him, the breath stolen from my lungs. “You knew.”
Trevor froze. His face went chalk-white as he realized what he had just admitted.
“Trevor…” My voice was barely a whisper. “You knew she poisoned them?”
“No! Not before!” he stammered, frantically waving his hands. “She told me this morning at the lawyer’s office! She broke down crying, Claire! She said she did it for us! For our future! What am I supposed to do? She’s my mother! If she goes to prison, our family name is finished! I have nothing without the Whitmore estate!”
“You are a monster,” I said, every ounce of love, memory, and respect for this man disintegrating into dust. “Just like her.”
Trevor dropped to his knees on the rug, weeping hysterically, grabbing at the hem of my jeans. “Claire, please! Don't leave me! Come to London with me! We can leave Mother behind once the trust is funded! We can have another baby!”
I felt sick to my stomach. Looking down at him, I noticed his trembling right hand clutching his knee.
The heavy gold signet ring gleamed under the recessed ceiling lights.
“Trevor,” I said softly, my voice carefully modulated into a tone of quiet surrender. “Look at me.”
He lifted his wet, desperate face. “Claire?”
“You really think we can start over?” I asked, kneeling down in front of him.
“Yes! Yes, I swear to God!” he choked out, reaching up to touch my arm.
“Then give me your hand,” I whispered, taking his right hand between mine. “Promise me you’ll protect Emma.”
“I promise, Claire! I swear on my life!”
With a swift, practiced motion, I grabbed his right ring finger and twisted the heavy gold signet ring hard.
Trevor yelped in pain as the band caught on his knuckle. Before he could pull away, I ripped the ring off his finger with all my strength.
“Hey! What are you doing?” he shouted, scrambling up. “Give that back! That was my father’s!”
I sprang to my feet and shoved him backward. Trevor, uncoordinated and half-drunk, tripped over his open duffel bag and crashed heavily against the vanity, knocking perfume bottles and silver trays clattering to the floor.
I sprinted out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut, and turned the heavy brass exterior latch that we had installed when Emma was a toddler.
“Claire! Open the door!” Trevor slammed his fists against the wood from the inside. “Give me back my father’s ring! Claire!”
I didn't look back. I ran down the stairs, out the garage door, and slid into the front seat of my car.
I looked at the heavy gold ring resting in my palm. Engraved on the inside band in microscopic script was a six-digit alphanumeric code: *CW-0914-V*.
My phone buzzed. It was Margaret.
“Claire? Do you have it?”
“I have the ring,” I breathed, slamming the car into drive. “And Trevor just confessed that Victoria admitted to the poisoning. I have the entire conversation recorded on my phone.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line.
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“Good,” Margaret said, her voice grim. “Because Victoria just ordered her security team to lock down the Greenwich estate. If we’re going to hit the carriage house, it has to be tonight.”
***
