“Mark, where did I put my phone?”
I’d ask, even though it was right in my hand.
I watched his face as he helped me find it. He looked like a man watching a masterpiece come to life. He was so proud of himself. He’d pat my cheek and say,
“Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m here to take care of you. I’ve already made an appointment with that specialist I told you about.”
The specialist. I knew what that meant. A doctor on his payroll who would see a woman with a history of memory loss and unstable behavior, all captured on camera, and sign the papers to hand over power of attorney.
Then came the visitor. I wasn’t expecting Mark’s mother, Evelyn. Evelyn has always looked at me like I was a budget brand shoe she was forced to wear. But that afternoon, she was unusually sweet. She brought over a homemade lasagna and sat at my kitchen table, her eyes darting around the room.
“Mark tells me you’re struggling, dear,”
she said, her voice like honey mixed with glass.
“It’s so tragic. Your father’s death really took a toll on your mind. Maybe it’s best if you just let Mark handle the estate paperwork. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake and lose everything to the government, would you?”
I looked at her and I realized where Mark got his cunning nature. This wasn’t just his plan. This was a family business. They weren’t just after my inheritance. They were after the legacy my father spent 40 years building. I took a bite of her lasagna and looked her dead in the eye.
“You’re right, Evelyn. I don’t know what I’d do without Mark. He’s such a dedicated husband.”
The next day, I didn’t go to the specialist Mark recommended. Instead, I drove three towns over to a small, windowless office belonging to a man named Elias. Elias was a retired detective who specialized in high-asset domestic disputes. I laid out the blue vial, my journal, and the photo of the smoke detector camera on his desk.
“I don’t just want a divorce,”
I told him.
“I want to know who else is in on this, and I want to know where my father’s missing jewelry went.”
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