Chapter 5 - The Confrontation
The revelations in Sarah's documents were sickeningly meticulous. Evander had deliberately booked me on long, grueling promotional tours and isolated writing retreats in northern California, claiming I needed absolute solitude to create my best work. In reality, every week I spent away was another week he used to transfer master rights, alter partnership bylaws, and stage lavish vacations for Tamsen using corporate expense accounts.
At two o'clock that afternoon, I arrived at our Bel Air estate accompanied by Meredith, two private investigators, and a uniformed off-duty officer authorized to oversee the execution of a temporary restraining order. As the heavy iron gates parted, I felt no sentimental pangs for the limestone mansion that had once felt like a sanctuary. It was simply a crime scene wrapped in manicured hedges and imported Italian marble.
Inside, the living room was in utter disarray. Suitcases lay half-packed on the Persian rug. Standing by the bar with an open bottle of scotch was Evander, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. And sitting right on the cream-colored sofa, clutching her designer handbag like a shield, was Tamsen Vale.
""You have ten minutes to collect your personal clothing and leave the premises,"" Meredith stated, holding up the court order before Evander could utter a word. ""Mr. Vance, your access to this property has been revoked. Miss Vale, you have no legal standing to be here whatsoever. If you do not vacate within ten minutes, you will be arrested for trespassing.""
Tamsen jumped to her feet, her voice shrill with indignation. ""You think you're so clever, don't you, Claire? You think putting our picture on a projector makes you a hero? You're just a bitter, dried-up workaholic who neglected her husband! Evander loved me because I made him feel alive, not like an errand boy running your little scripts!""
I walked calmly past her, never glancing in her direction, and stopped in front of the anniversary pillow resting on the sofa. I picked it up, examined the neat embroidery—*Still My Favorite Story*—and tossed it unceremoniously into the crackling gas fireplace. The silk caught instantly, shriveling into black smoke.
""Tamsen,"" I said, turning to look at her with an expression of quiet pity. ""You thought you were stealing my husband. But all you were really doing was auditioning to be the co-conspirator in a grand larceny indictment. Did Evander tell you that Sarah handed us the wire records from your brother's account in Zurich this morning?""
Tamsen's face turned pasty gray. She spun around to stare at Evander, her voice cracking in panic. ""What is she talking about? Evander, you said the European accounts were completely untraceable! You said she would never find the paperwork!""
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Evander slammed his glass down, smashing it against the marble counter. ""Shut up, Tamsen! Just shut your mouth!"" He lunged toward me, but the uniformed officer immediately stepped between us, hand resting firmly on his utility belt. ""Claire, we can settle this!"" Evander begged, the arrogance finally peeling away to reveal a sniveling coward. ""Don't go to the district attorney. We can sell the house, pay off Blackwood, and divide what's left. If you send me to prison, the project will die! No studio will touch a show surrounded by a criminal trial!""
""The show belongs to me, Evander,"" I replied softly. ""And the story is just getting started.""
