Chapter 5
The news hit us like a physical blow.
Sloan was pregnant.
Or had been pregnant.
And she was blaming me.
Harrison was stunned.
"She never said anything," he said. "She never told me she was pregnant."
"She probably wasn't," David said. "Or if she was, it wasn't yours. And the miscarriage probably had nothing to do with stress. This is just another tactic. To make you look bad. To make Lorraine look like a monster. To gain sympathy from the court."
"But what if she was pregnant?" Harrison asked. "What if it was mine?"
"Then we'll ask for a DNA test," David said. "But Sloan will probably refuse. She won't want any proof that might contradict her story. She'll just want the emotional impact of the claim."
He was right.
Sloan refused to release any medical records.
She refused to take a DNA test.
She just kept making the claim.
In the press.
In court filings.
In every interview she could get.
*I LOST MY BABY BECAUSE OF THAT WOMAN*
The headlines were everywhere.
And people believed her.
Because people loved a victim.
Especially a young, beautiful woman who'd lost her baby.
I was now the villain of the story.
The cruel old woman who'd caused her daughter-in-law to miscarry.
The hate mail started.
Letters.
Emails.
Phone calls.
People telling me I was a monster.
That I should be ashamed.
That I should die.
It was overwhelming.
I stopped going out.
I stopped answering the phone.
I stopped seeing friends.
I became a prisoner in my own home.
Harrison was devastated.
He didn't know if the baby had been his.
He didn't know if he'd lost a child.
And he was being portrayed as a weak, spineless man who'd let his mother abuse his wife and kill his baby.
He lost his job.
His company didn't want the bad publicity.
He lost friends.
People who believed the lies.
He became as much of a prisoner as I was.
But we didn't give up.
David kept fighting.
He filed motions.
He requested evidence.
He demanded that Sloan produce medical records.
And slowly, he started to pick apart her story.
He found the doctor who'd supposedly treated Sloan for the miscarriage.
The doctor admitted that Sloan had never been his patient.
That he'd never treated her.
That someone had used his name without his knowledge.
He found the hospital where Sloan had supposedly been admitted.
There was no record of her ever being there.
He found evidence that Sloan had been photographed at a party.
Two days after the supposed miscarriage.
Looking happy and healthy.
Drinking champagne.
Dancing.
Not like a woman who'd just lost her baby.
Piece by piece, Sloan's lies were unraveling.
But the damage had been done.
Our reputations were in tatters.
Our lives had been turned upside down.
And we were running out of money.
Legal fees were piling up.
Harrison was unemployed.
My savings were being drained.
Sloan was winning.
Even as her lies were being exposed.
She was destroying us.
One day at a time.
I started thinking about selling the house.
Just to pay the bills.
Just to make it all stop.
But I couldn't.
This house was Richard's legacy.
It was our home.
It was everything.
I couldn't let Sloan take that too.
And then Brenda came to me with an idea.
"Tell your story," she said. "To the press. On your terms. Not Sloan's. People need to hear the truth from you."
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not good at that kind of thing."
"You don't have to be," Brenda said. "You just have to be honest. People can tell when someone is telling the truth. And they're ready to hear your side. Sloan's fifteen minutes of fame are almost up. People are starting to see through her. You just need to give them a push."
I thought about it.
And I decided she was right.
I agreed to do an interview.
With a local news station.
One that had been fair in their coverage so far.
Harrison agreed to do it with me.
We sat down in our living room.
The cameras rolled.
And I told the truth.
Everything.
From the beginning.
Sloan moving in.
Taking over.
Insulting me.
Moving Richard's picture.
The birthday cake.
The "Oops."
Burning the purse.
The thirty-day notice.
Overhearing their plan to take the house.
The recording of Sloan's affair.
Her leaving.
The divorce.
The lies.
The fake miscarriage.
Everything.
I showed the recording.
I showed the evidence.
I showed the photographs.
And I cried.
Not for sympathy.
But because it hurt.
Because I'd lost my husband.
And then I'd almost lost my son.
And my home.
And my reputation.
All because of a greedy, cruel woman who'd wanted what was mine.
Harrison spoke too.
He told his side.
How he'd been manipulated.
How he'd been fooled.
How he'd chosen Sloan over his own mother.
And how sorry he was.
And how he was trying to make it right.
The interview aired that night.
And everything changed.
People saw the truth.
They saw my pain.
They saw Harrison's regret.
They saw the evidence.
And they believed us.
The response was overwhelming.
Supportive messages poured in.
From all over the country.
People apologizing for believing the lies.
People offering encouragement.
People offering help.
Sloan's fifteen minutes were over.
The tabloids dropped her.
The public turned on her.
And her own lawyer started distancing himself from her.
We were winning.
But Sloan wasn't done yet.
She had one final, desperate card to play.
And it was the most dangerous one yet.
That night, I got a text message.
From an unknown number.
It was a photograph.
Of my house.
Taken that evening.
May you like
And the message said:
*If I can't have it, nobody can.*
