Chapter 8 - The Divide
With their bank accounts frozen and Tyler unemployed, tension inside the temporary Miller household reached a boiling point. I knew this because I had installed a hidden microphone in David's office office-desk during our meeting, and I was intercepting his personal emails.
David was desperate. He owed hundreds of thousands of dollars to contractors for the commercial project, and without the insurance money, he was on the verge of bankruptcy.
He called a family meeting at his office. I listened in via the audio bug.
"We need to cut back on everything," David told Carol and Tyler, his voice strained to the breaking point. "Tyler, you need to get a job. Any job. Retail, food service, I don't care. We can't afford to support you in Chicago anymore."
"Retail?!" Tyler outraged. "Dad, I'm an architect! I'm not working at a grocery store! You promised you'd fix the thing with Apex!"
"Marcus Thorne won't take my calls, Tyler!" David yelled, slamming his hand on the desk. "You ruined that opportunity yourself with that garbage design! Do you know what people are saying about us? The insurance company is investigating me! They think I set the fire!"
Carol began to sob. "David, stop it! Don't yell at him. He's been through enough. We can't lose him too."
"We're losing everything, Carol!" David shouted back. "And it's because you're losing your mind! You're spending thousands on therapists and sleeping pills, claiming you hear Hannah's voice in the garden! Hannah is dead! She's gone!"
"Don't say her name!" Carol shrieked. "You shoved her! I saw you, David! You pushed her back into that room to get Tyler out! It's your fault!"
The room went dead silent. Even through the speaker, the weight of that confession was suffocating.
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"You agreed to it," David whispered, his voice dangerously low, dripping with venom. "You stood at the stairs and said we couldn't lose our son. You made the choice just as much as I did, Carol. If I go down for negligence, I'm taking you with me."
I sat in my hotel room, tears streaming down my face—not of sadness, but of pure, vindictive triumph. They were turning on each other. The golden bond of the Miller family was nothing but a fragile glass facade, and it was shattering into a million pieces.
