Chapter 5 - Why Trent Knew My MotherGreg asked to speak with me.

His attorney arranged it through investigators.

My mother opposed.

I agreed anyway.

We met in a police conference room.

Greg looked smaller without Trent.

He stared at the table.

“I should've stopped him.”

“Yes.”

He flinched.

I wasn't interested in making him comfortable.

He continued:

“I didn't think he'd actually drop it.”

“You kept filming.”

“I know.”

“You stood on my other leg.”

Greg closed his eyes.

“I know.”

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Then he slid a printed copy of a group-chat conversation across the table.

Trent had written six weeks earlier:

My dad says Morgan's mom is trying to bury his company.

Someone replied:

Your dad gonna lose contract?

Trent:

No. She's just some colonel trying to make a name.

Then:

Her kid goes here.

My stomach tightened.

Another message:

Maybe Robo-Boy should tell Mommy to back off.

I looked at Greg.

“You knew?”

“I knew Trent hated your mom.”

“Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“I thought it was trash talk.”

Maybe it was.

At first.

Greg continued:

“His dad talked about Colonel Morgan a lot.”

“You heard him?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“At Trent's house.”

Wade had complained that Rebecca was delaying a contract modification worth tens of millions.

Greg remembered him saying:

“People like Morgan destroy companies because procedure matters more to them than reality.”

My mother would probably have considered that a compliment.

I didn't.

“Did Wade ever tell Trent to target me?”

Greg shook his head.

“Not that I heard.”

That distinction mattered.

Wade's influence could explain resentment without proving he ordered harassment.

The story needed truth, not a cleaner villain.

Greg then gave investigators his cloud backup.

He had filmed Trent for months.

Not because he was gathering evidence.

Because cruelty became content inside their friend group.

Videos existed of Trent mocking students.

Knocking books away.

Destroying property.

Humiliating freshmen.

Greg had laughed in some.

He looked sick hearing himself.

“Why save them?”

“Automatic backup.”

Technology had done what conscience had not.

Preserved everything.

One clip showed Trent outside the mobility lab.

He pointed at the CALDER FAMILY sign.

Then at me entering the building.

“Look. My family built a place for people like him.”

Greg laughed.

Trent continued:

“And his mom still wants to screw my dad.”

That was the clearest link yet.

Not proof of a conspiracy.

Proof of motive.

My mother's professional role had become part of Trent's personal hatred.

That meant something else too.

For six weeks, I had been telling myself the harassment was random.

Maybe being disabled simply made me an easy target.

Now I learned I had been targeted partly because of who my mother was.

That should have made me feel less personally ashamed.

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Instead it made me furious.

Trent had taken a dispute between adults and decided my body was the appropriate battlefield.