Michael drew his sidearm—a pure reflex from fourteen months in hostile territory—and sprinted downstairs.
The dark living room was violently illuminated by a roaring fire.
Margaret lay sprawled on the polished hardwood, clutching her bleeding hand. Next to her was a heavy, shattered iron lockbox. She had tried to hurl it into the blazing fireplace, but its weight had dragged her down, crushing her fingers.
“Michael, help me!” she shrieked.
But Michael didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the contents bleeding out of the broken safe.
Hundreds of envelopes. His handwriting. Every letter he had sent Emily, unopened.
Emily appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her breath catching. “She told me you were killed in action,” Emily choked out. “She showed me the official telegram. She said if I left the house, the military would seize the estate.”
Michael stepped over his mother to inspect the scattered papers. Among his stolen letters was a stack of freshly stamped legal documents. He nudged them with his combat boot.
A military life insurance payout. Two million dollars.
But there was something else. Michael picked up a newly drafted will. It left the entire estate to Margaret, signed with Emily’s perfectly forged signature.
Beneath it lay a pharmacy receipt for a highly untraceable, slow-acting chemical toxin.
*The tea.*
Emily wasn’t just being bullied. She was being methodically poisoned to secure the fortune.
“Michael, please, it was an accident!” Margaret whimpered, crawling backward.
Michael looked at the lethal tea stains still soaked into his wife’s dress. Then he looked at his mother’s greedy, terrified eyes.
He slowly holstered his weapon.
“You’re right, Mother,” Michael whispered, his voice terrifyingly calm as he kicked the iron box away. “Tripping and falling into a blazing fireplace. What a terrible accident.”