Chapter 9 - What My Mother Brought to the Hospital
The syringe contained insulin.
I was not diabetic.
My mother knew that.
When Detective Beckett told me, I felt something inside myself finally break.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It was quieter than that.
For thirty-two years, some part of me had continued searching for a version of my mother who loved me.
Even after the porch.
Even after the fake messages.
Even after discovering the stolen trust money.
There had still been a tiny, humiliating hope that perhaps she had simply followed Dad too far.
The syringe killed that hope.
Mom claimed it was planted.
She said someone had put it in her purse.
She said she had come to apologize.
She said the stolen hospital badge had been given to her by an unknown woman outside.
She said she used the employee elevator because reporters were waiting in the lobby.
She had an explanation for everything.
Detective Beckett arrested her anyway.
The district attorney filed charges related to attempted assault, evidence tampering, conspiracy, and the prior attack.
More charges were expected.
When I saw her mugshot on television, I did not feel victorious.
I felt tired.
Wyatt sat beside me.
“You don’t have to watch.”
“I know.”
I switched off the screen myself.
That mattered.
I was beginning to understand that recovery might be a thousand small moments of choosing what entered my life.
The next morning, Samuel arrived with news about the trust.
A judge had frozen all Monroe Family Trust assets.
The North Ridge sale was suspended.
My parents could no longer move money connected to the estate.
“That means the land is safe?”
“For now.”
“For now again.”
He smiled slightly.
“Lawyers love temporary certainty.”
I almost smiled back.
Then he became serious.
“There is another matter.”
“What?”
“Your father wants to speak to you.”
“No.”
“I assumed that would be your answer.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because he is offering information.”
“What kind?”
“About Vivian.”
Wyatt leaned forward.
“Convenient timing.”
“Extremely.”
“What does he want?”
Samuel answered.
“A meeting with Sadie.”
“No,” Wyatt said immediately.
I looked at him.
He stopped.
“It’s your decision.”
“What has Dad offered?”
Samuel opened his notebook.
“He told prosecutors that Vivian planned Theodore’s death.”
My body went cold.
“And?”
“He says he can prove it.”
“How?”
“He claims there is a recording.”
“Another recording?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“He will only tell Sadie.”
Wyatt shook his head.
“Manipulation.”
Probably.
But my father had spent decades controlling rooms through fear.
If he was finally afraid, he might be useful.
“Can I meet him safely?”
Samuel frowned.
“Through secure video.”
“Do it.”
Wyatt looked unhappy.
I touched his hand.
“I need to hear him.”
Two hours later, my father appeared on a monitor in a county detention interview room.
He wore orange.
I had never seen him look small before.
He looked older.
His hair was uncombed.
There was a bruise near his jaw.
But the moment he saw me, his old arrogance returned.
“Sadie.”
I stared back.
He looked at my bandages.
For half a second, something flickered across his face.
Regret?
Shame?
I almost believed it.
Then he said, “You’ve made this much worse than it needed to be.”
There was my father.
I laughed.
It hurt.
“You hit me with a brick.”
“You were hysterical.”
“I was standing on a porch.”
“You were screaming.”
“After you threatened me.”
He leaned forward.
“Your mother set this up.”
“You still did it.”
“I lost control.”
“No. You made a choice.”
His jaw tightened.
“We don’t have time for your therapy language.”
Wyatt shifted beside me.
I raised one hand.
Let me handle him.
“What proof do you have?”
Dad glanced toward the camera in his room.
“I want protection.”
“You’re in jail.”
“I want a deal.”
“I’m not a prosecutor.”
“You can influence them.”
“You overestimate me.”
“No.”
He smiled bitterly.
“I underestimated you for years.”
The sentence surprised me.
He continued.
“That was Theodore’s mistake too.”
“Grandpa knew exactly who I was.”
“He made you weak.”
“No. He made me kind.”
“Same thing.”
I looked at him calmly.
“Where is the recording?”
Dad’s expression changed.
“If I tell you, Vivian will destroy it.”
“She’s in jail.”
“She prepared for that.”
“How?”
“There are people helping her.”
“Who?”
“I want a deal.”
I leaned closer to the screen.
“Then enjoy prison.”
I reached toward the button to end the call.
“Wait!”
For the first time, panic entered his voice.
I stopped.
Dad stared at me.
“The blue room.”
I frowned.
“What blue room?”
“At your grandmother’s old house.”
“She sold that house.”
“No.”
Samuel turned sharply toward the screen.
“What do you mean, no?”
Dad ignored him.
“The house was transferred into a shell company.”
“Whose?”
“Vivian’s.”
Of course.
“What is in the blue room?”
“A cassette recorder.”
I almost laughed.
“A cassette?”
“Your mother never trusted digital files.”
“When was it recorded?”
“The night Theodore died.”
My heart hammered.
“Who recorded it?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Dad looked away.
“Insurance.”
“You recorded Mom killing Grandpa?”
“I recorded a conversation.”
“What conversation?”
He swallowed.
“Vivian and Martin.”
I stared at him.
“What were they saying?”
Dad’s eyes returned to mine.
“They were arguing.”
“About what?”
“Martin wanted more money.”
Samuel moved closer.
“For what?”
Dad’s face hardened.
“For changing the dosage.”
Silence.
Nobody moved.
My father continued.
“Your uncle didn’t intend to kill Theodore.”
“What?”
“He was supposed to make him confused.”
“Why?”
“So Theodore could be declared incompetent.”
My stomach twisted.
“That was Plan B.”
Dad gave a faint nod.
“Originally.”
“Then what happened?”
“Vivian changed the plan.”
My voice barely worked.
“How?”
“She gave Theodore the rest.”
“The rest of what?”
Dad stared at me.
“You already know.”
Digoxin.
My mother.
Not my father.
Not Uncle Martin.
My mother had allegedly administered the fatal dose.
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
Dad’s expression went blank.
“Because by then, I needed Theodore dead too.”
I stared at the man who had raised me.
There was no excuse left.
No version of him worth recovering.
“Where is the house?”
He gave Samuel the address.
An hour later, police surrounded the property.
The shell company existed.
The house had never truly been sold.
Inside the upstairs blue bedroom, investigators found a false panel behind an old radiator.
Inside it were cassette tapes.
Eleven of them.
The first ten contained conversations about money.
The eleventh was dated the night Grandpa died.
But when forensic technicians played it, they heard something nobody expected.
Grandpa Theodore was still alive.
And the first voice on the recording was his.
“If anything happens to me tonight,” he said calmly, “Vivian did it.”
May you like
Then my mother’s voice answered from somewhere in the room.
“You always did underestimate me, Theodore.”
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