Chapter 4 - What Lies Beneath the Floorboards
Two hours later, Evelyn Kane arrived at my house. She was forty-two, sharp as a whip, dressed in a sharp dark suit, with eyes that could cut through armor.
I sat her down in my study, locked the door, and handed her Sarah’s letter, along with the brass key to Safe Deposit Box 408.
Evelyn read the letter twice. Her sharp expression hardened into stone.
"If what Sarah wrote here is true, Thomas," Evelyn said, looking up, "this isn't just a probate dispute. This is a capital murder case disguised as a medical tragic event. But we have a major problem."
"What problem?" I asked.
"Sarah was cremated three days ago, per Charles's immediate instructions," Evelyn said, her voice heavy. "Without a body, traditional toxicology reports are impossible. The medical examiner listed her official cause of death as systemic organ failure secondary to autoimmune disease. If we go to the police right now with just this handwritten letter, Charles’s high-priced lawyers will claim Sarah was delusional, paranoid from her illness, and trying to sabotage her husband out of spite."
My heart sank into my chest. "So we have nothing?"
"We have Key 408," Evelyn corrected me, standing up. "Let's go to First National Bank."
Thirty minutes later, Evelyn and I stood in the private vault of First National Bank. The bank manager turned the dual keys, pulled out the long metal box, and left us alone in a small viewing room.
My hands shook as I opened the lid.
Inside lay three things:
A clear plastic container holding four small vacuum-sealed medical vials of dark blood, labeled with dates in Sarah’s handwriting from two months prior.
A black metal thumb drive.
A thick leather-bound journal.
Evelyn immediately pulled a pair of velvet gloves from her bag, placed the thumb drive into her encrypted laptop, and plugged in her earphones. She clicked on the main audio file.
A moment later, her eyes widened. She unplugged the headphones so I could hear.
Through the laptop speakers came the unmistakable voice of Charles, speaking over a restaurant table background.
"...the doctors aren't looking for heavy metals or rare compounds, Vanessa," Charles’s voice said, clear and cold. "They think it's Lupus or Neuromyelitis. As long as we keep the doses small and consistent, her kidneys will slowly fail over six months. Once she's gone, the policy clears. Five million tax-free. And her father is too old and broken to do anything about it."
Then came Vanessa's laughter. "Just make sure she doesn't change the will before she goes, sweetie. I don't want to share a dime with those bratty kids of hers."
My breath stopped. My blood ran cold, then burst into a inferno of fury.
"She recorded them," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Sarah bugged his car or his phone."
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"This is golden," Evelyn said, her eyes blazing with fierce determination. "This is a direct admission of premeditated conspiracy to commit murder. But we still need to prove the poison was in her system. I’m taking these blood vials to a private, accredited forensic lab out of state—one Charles's money can't buy."
She looked at me sternly. "Thomas, you have to play the long game. When Charles demands that paper signed tomorrow, you have to pretend you're broke, scared, and willing to surrender. We need him confident. We need him thinking he won—right up until the trap snaps shut."
