Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN EVERYONE BELIEVEDThe Wentworth name opened doors.
That had always been convenient.
Now it became dangerous.
By three in the afternoon, the first article appeared online.
FAMILY DISPUTE AT WENTWORTH ESTATE LEADS TO POLICE RESPONSE.
Family dispute.
Not assault.
Not attempted robbery.
Not pregnant woman hospitalized.
Family dispute.
The source was anonymous.
But I knew my mother’s perfume was all over every word.
By dinner, the story had grown teeth.
Someone claimed Irene had been “emotionally unstable” since becoming pregnant.
Someone claimed my mother and sister had gone to check on her out of concern.
Someone claimed I had “misunderstood the scene” because I arrived exhausted after a canceled international flight.
I stood in Irene’s hospital room reading the headlines on my phone while she slept.
A bruise had darkened along her jaw.
Her wrist was elevated.
The baby’s heartbeat had remained steady for six hours.
That was the only fact keeping me sane.
Samuel called.
“She’s moving fast,” he said.
“I know.”
“No. Faster than you think. Your mother filed an emergency petition.”
“For what?”
“To have Irene psychologically evaluated.”
I closed my eyes.
“She’s in a hospital bed because Margaret attacked her.”
“And Margaret is claiming Irene harmed herself during a paranoid episode.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Can she do that?”
“She can file anything. Winning is different.”
But I heard what he did not say.
Rich families did not need truth first.
They needed doubt.
And Margaret was a master of doubt.
Irene woke as I ended the call.
“You saw it?” she whispered.
I sat beside her.
“Saw what?”
“The news.”
I did not answer quickly enough.
She turned her face away.
“She told me no one would believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“But will they?”
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to promise the world was fair if you had evidence.
But that would have been another lie in a room already crowded with them.
So I told her the only truth I had.
“I recorded everything. The police saw everything. Your injuries are documented. The suitcase exists. The hammer exists. My father’s letter exists.”
Her eyes shifted back to mine.
“My diary exists too.”
I froze.
“What diary?”
“The one I kept after she slapped me the first time.”
I leaned closer.
“Where is it?”
Irene swallowed.
“In the nursery.”
My stomach tightened.
“The police searched the bedroom and study. Not the nursery.”
Her breathing changed.
“Austin.”
I stood.
“I’ll send Harris.”
“No,” she said, grabbing my hand with surprising strength. “You don’t understand.”
“What?”
May you like
Her eyes filled.
“I hid more than a diary.”
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