…tens of my own empty prescription bottles. The exact same bottles the detectives had been frantically searching for since my husband’s “accidental” overdose three weeks ago.
I stood there on the plush carpet of the room that used to be hers, the air suddenly turning to ice in my lungs. I had kicked Chloe out just hours earlier. I had stood in the hallway, arms crossed, watching her pack her duffel bag through blurry, tear-filled eyes. I told myself I was being practical. “You’re 15! You can’t hang on to memories,” I had yelled, my voice dripping with rehearsed frustration. “I want to move on!” In truth, I just wanted her gone. Chloe was quiet, observant, and far too smart for her own good. With her out of the house and sent to live with her estranged aunt two states over, I thought I finally had the massive estate—and the life insurance payout—all to myself. I thought I had gotten away with it.
My hands shook as I pulled the heavy plastic storage bin entirely out from under her bed. The bottles weren’t just tossed inside; they were meticulously organized. Next to them sat a thick, leather-bound journal. It was her father’s handwriting on the cover.
I flipped it open, my stomach dropping into a bottomless pit.
Inside were dates, times, and detailed accounts of every argument we ever had. But worse, there were printouts of my private bank transfers, the secret debts I thought I had hidden, and a final entry written by my husband the night before he died: “I know what she is slipping into my drinks. I’ve told Chloe to watch her. If anything happens to me, it wasn’t an accident.”
I had completely underestimated a grieving teenager. She hadn’t been crying in her room for two weeks just because she missed her dad. She had been crying because she was terrified, quietly gathering the evidence I was too careless to hide.
At the very bottom of the bin lay a single piece of lined notebook paper. The ink was slightly smudged from her tears.
“I didn’t want to leave,” her messy handwriting read. “But I needed you to think you won. Aunt Sarah is a lawyer. We gave the copies to the police on my way to the airport. Goodbye.”
A loud, aggressive pounding at the front door echoed through the empty, cavernous house. Followed by a voice that made my blood run cold.
“Open up! Police department. We have a warrant.”
