I clicked the first one.
The video was black and white, shot from a high angle—likely a hidden camera nestled in the crown molding of the kitchen. There was no audio, making the scene feel like a macabre silent film.
It showed my father sitting at the kitchen island, his shoulders slumped, looking frail. He was reading a newspaper. Eleanor walked into the frame. She was wearing her silk robe, looking the picture of a devoted wife. She moved to the stove and poured hot water into a teacup.
Then, she checked over her shoulder. My father’s back was turned.
With practiced, terrifying efficiency, Eleanor reached into the pocket of her robe, pulled out a small glass vial, and tapped three drops of clear liquid into the tea. She stirred it, slipped the vial back into her pocket, and carried the mug to my father, kissing the top of his head as she set it down.
I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. The sheer, banal evil of it was staggering. He had known. He had sat there, feeling the poison slowly ravaging his organs, and he had taken the cup anyway, playing the long game to ensure she wouldn’t realize she was caught until his assets were entirely out of her reach. He bought my safety with his life.
Leverage encourages carelessness, the letter had said. He gave her the illusion of power so she would leave a trail of undeniable evidence.
I clicked out of the video and opened a document titled ‘Financials.’ It was a web of screenshots, offshore routing numbers, and emails Eleanor had sent from a burner account. She wasn’t just poisoning him; she had been siphoning cash from his business accounts for years, funneling it to an account in the Cayman Islands.
Suddenly, the handle of the study door rattled.
I froze.
“Harper,” Eleanor’s voice came through the thick wood, muffled but dripping with a saccharine sweetness that made my skin crawl. “I know you’re in there. I saw the light under the door. Be a good girl and unlock it.”
I gripped the fire poker tighter. “Get out of my house, Eleanor. I’m calling the police.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” she crooned. “If you call the police, I’ll just have to tell them about the discrepancies in your father’s business ledgers. The ones I’ve framed to look like you were embezzling. It would tie you up in federal court for a decade.”
“You have a key,” I said, ignoring her bluff, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You weren’t just checking on the house. You came back for something.”
There was a pause. Then, a dark, low chuckle. “Your father was a paranoid old fool. He told me once he kept a ‘rainy day fund’ hidden in the masonry of this house. I want it, Harper. I want what is owed to me for wasting five years of my youth changing his bedpans. Open the door, or I’ll go to my car and get the crowbar.”
I looked down at the laptop screen. The image of her dropping the poison into the tea was paused, perfectly framing her guilt.