Three days after my father’s funeral, my stepmother walked in wearing that smile—the one that always meant she wanted something. She fixated on the battered toolbox by my door, the only thing Dad had left me.
“Give it to me. I’ll pay you $5,000 to throw it away,” she said, pulling out a thick stack of cash.
$5,000 for a toolbox? My skin went cold. Something wasn’t right. Dad had been a simple mechanic; his tools were old and greasy, worth maybe a hundred bucks at a pawn shop. I refused.
She went pale for a second—terrified. Then her eyes narrowed. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed before storming out.
I tried to open it immediately, but the box was locked. No key. I tore my house apart looking for it, but then I remembered: Dad used to let my stepsister, April, play with his keys when she was little.
After a desperate visit to April’s house, I found the small, tarnished brass key hidden deep inside her jewelry box. I took it while she was in the shower, my heart hammering in my chest.
Back home, my hands shook as I fit the key into the lock. Click.
I lifted the heavy lid. It was just screwdrivers and wrenches at first. I dug deeper, past the oily rags and rusted pliers. Then, at the very bottom, wrapped in layers of thick plastic, I found it.
It wasn’t money. It was a stack of medical records and a pristine, leather-bound notebook.
I unwrapped the notebook and opened it. It was Dad’s handwriting, but shaky and weak. The first entry was dated three months ago.
“Karen is making me ‘special tea’ again. She insists I drink it. My stomach burns every time, but she watches me until the cup is empty. I found the receipt for rat poison in the trash today. I think I know what is happening. If I die, check the toxicology. Do not let her cremate me.”
Underneath the notebook was a legal document—a revised Will, notarized just weeks before he died, leaving everything to me and explicitly stating his suspicion of foul play.
A chill ran down my spine. The $5,000 offer made perfect sense now. She wasn’t buying the tools; she was buying the evidence of her crime.
Suddenly, the front door crashed open.
Karen stood there, her chest heaving, a tire iron in her hand. She must have followed me back from April’s. “Give me the box,” she screamed, her fake smile long gone.
“I know about the tea, Karen,” I said, holding up the notebook. “I know about the poison.”
She lunged at me, swinging the iron. I scrambled back, tripping over the coffee table. Just as she raised the weapon for a second blow, sirens wailed outside, drowning out her scream.
Blue and red lights flashed through the front window. April ran through the open door, followed by two police officers.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” April sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at her. “I couldn’t let you hurt him too. I called them.”
Karen froze, the tire iron clattering to the floor.
The autopsy was performed the next day, halting the cremation she had fought so hard to schedule. They found the arsenic immediately.
Six months later, I sat on the porch of the house Dad had built—the house she tried to steal. Karen was serving a life sentence. I looked down at the old, battered red toolbox sitting next to me.
She had offered $5,000 to make it disappear. But inside, my father had left me the two most valuable things in the world: the truth, and my life.
