Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN WHO CRIED AT MY ALTAR LIED AGAIN
Camille did not deny it.
“I witnessed the signature.”
“You watched someone forge my name.”
“Yes.”
We stood in her photography studio.
The same studio my money had supposedly financed.
The walls were covered with smiling couples.
Engagements.
Weddings.
Anniversaries.
The irony was almost insulting.
“Why?”
“Grant made me.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
She flinched.
“I’m done accepting that sentence as an explanation.”
“He threatened my daughter.”
I froze.
“You have a daughter?”
Camille nodded.
“Eight.”
I had known her for four years.
I had never heard about a child.
“She lives with her father in San Antonio.”
“Why hide her?”
“Because Grant used everyone I loved.”
There it was.
The family pattern.
Control through fear.
Camille showed me messages.
Grant threatening custody interference.
Threatening her ex-husband’s business.
Threatening to expose old drug charges Camille had gotten dismissed years earlier.
“I helped because I was scared.”
“That explains it.”
I looked at her.
“It does not excuse it.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
That phrase mattered more when people said it without expecting absolution.
“Did Everett know you witnessed the forgery?”
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“Of course.”
“Madison…”
“What?”
“The affair.”
I braced.
“It wasn’t six weeks.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Longer?”
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
“It happened once.”
I stared.
“You said six weeks.”
“Because Grant told me to make it sound worse.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you never reconciled.”
I felt suddenly exhausted.
“I was not reconciling.”
“He didn’t know that.”
“Why did Grant care?”
“Because Everett told him if you forgave him, he’d confess everything and help you protect the ranch.”
That changed something.
Not enough.
But something.
Camille had manipulated me at the diner.
Grant had still been controlling the narrative from jail through messages sent before his arrest.
“What actually happened between you and Everett?”
“One night.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Did he stop it?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell me?”
“No.”
“That is still betrayal.”
“Yes.”
I breathed.
“Did you love him?”
Camille thought.
“I loved how he made me feel when my life was collapsing.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
She looked around the studio.
“I think I knew that.”
Then she handed me a flash drive.
“What is this?”
“Grant’s backup files.”
“How did you get them?”
“He hid them here because he thought nobody would search my studio.”
I stared.
“Why give them to me?”
“Because my daughter deserves a mother who stops choosing fear.”
That was the first thing Camille said I genuinely respected.
The drive contained financial records.
Bribes.
Construction fraud.
Political donations.
And one audio file.
Grant arguing with Joanne Cross.
Her voice:
“I did what you asked. Leave Everett out of it.”
Grant:
“You killed your husband. You don’t get to negotiate.”
Joanne:
“I did not kill Steven.”
Then Grant said:
“You cut his brake line.”
Silence.
Finally Joanne whispered:
“Because he was going to kill Everett.”
I stopped the recording.
Camille stared at me.
Everett’s mother had sabotaged her husband’s truck.
Not for insurance.
Not for money.
May you like
To save her son.
But from what?
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