Chapter 4 - Shadows and Subpoenas
Two weeks after the collapse in the ICU, Colton was finally discharged from the hospital. His body was thin, his complexion pale, and his heart rate still required daily monitoring, but he walked out of those double glass doors under his own strength.
Melody held his left hand while I held his right. Roger carried his duffel bags three paces behind us—present, but cast out into the icy periphery of our lives. He had moved into the guest bedroom, understanding without being told that his place in our hearts had to be rebuilt from absolute zero.
However, Francine Vance was not going to go down without a war.
From her cell at the county jail, funded by her vast personal estate, she hired Arthur Pendelton—one of the most ruthless defense attorneys in the state. Within forty-eight hours of her bail hearing, legal notices began raining down on our household like artillery shells.
First came a petition for emergency custody of Melody and Colton, claiming that I was an unfit mother with a history of family addiction (referencing my late sister’s battle with cancer and subsequent pain management).
Next came a civil lawsuit against me for slander and defamation, claiming Melody's video was a manipulated deepfake created to destroy Francine's reputation and steal her wealth.
"She’s playing dirty, Bethany," my court-appointed family lawyer, Sarah Jenkins, warned me over coffee at her office. "Pendelton is going to paint you as a bitter, unstable woman who used her dead sister’s old prescription drugs to poison her own son, then coached her eight-year-old daughter to record a misleading video to frame her innocent mother-in-law."
"The video isn't fake," I said, my knuckles white against the coffee cup. "And the notebook the police found has her handwriting on every page."
"Pendelton is already arguing the notebook was planted by you," Sarah replied grimly. "They are going to drag your sister's memory through the mud. They are going to audit your finances. They are going to try to break you before the preliminary hearing even starts."
That evening at home, the pressure reached its boiling point.
A process server knocked on the door at 8:00 PM, handing me a subpoena that summoned eight-year-old Melody to testify in an open court deposition.
When I brought the paper into the living room, Roger was sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor.
"We have to settle, Bethany," Roger whispered, his voice trembling with terror. "My mother's lawyers will destroy Melody on the witness stand. They'll make her cry. They'll say she's a liar. If we offer to drop the criminal charges or ask the prosecutor for a plea deal without jail time..."
I slammed the subpoena onto the coffee table so hard the lamp rattled.
"Are you out of your mind?!" I screamed, the rage I had held back for years finally bursting out. "She poisoned your son until his heart nearly stopped! She terrorized your daughter! And your response is to surrender because you're scared of her lawyers?!"
"I'm trying to protect Melody!" Roger yelled back, standing up.
"No, Roger! You are trying to protect yourself from feeling uncomfortable!" I stepped right up to his chest, pointing a finger at his face. "You spent twelve years hiding behind my skirt while your mother whipped us both. That ends today. If you cannot stand up for your children in a court of law, pack your bags and get out of this house tonight."
Colton stepped into the living room, leaning against the doorframe, his voice low and raspy. "Dad. If you don't fight Grandma... I'll never speak to you again."
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Roger looked at his son’s thin, hollow face, then at my blazing eyes. The realization hit him like a physical blow: he was on the verge of losing everything that truly mattered.
"Okay," Roger sobbed, sinking to his knees on the rug. "Okay. I'll fight her. Tell me what to do, Bethany. I'll do whatever it takes."
