Chapter 4
I read Dad’s letter three times before the words settled into meaning.
Sarah is not who she says she is.
Her real name is Sarah Whitcomb.
She was married once before.
Her first husband died after changing his will.
Police called it an accident.
I don’t believe that anymore.
If something happens to me, go to Mr. Alvarez.
Do not trust the life insurance paperwork.
Do not trust my medical records.
Do not trust Sarah.
I felt the hospital waiting room spin around me.
Dad had known.
Not everything.
But enough.
And he had still died.
Mr. Alvarez sat beside me, hands folded.
“He came over two weeks before his death,” he said. “Looked worse than I’d ever seen him. Said he was tired all the time. Dizzy. Forgetting things.”
“Why didn’t you call someone?”
“I asked him to go to the police.”
“And?”
“He said he needed proof first.”
I stared at the folder.
“He was recording her.”
“Yes.”
“What did he catch?”
Mr. Alvarez’s voice lowered.
“I never watched it. Your father asked me not to unless something happened.”
“Something happened.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
Detective Karen Holt came the next morning.
She was not the officer from the garage.
She was sharper.
Quieter.
She listened to everything without interrupting.
Then she asked one question.
“Where is your father buried?”
The words made my chest tighten.
“Restland Cemetery.”
She nodded once.
“I’m going to request the full medical file and autopsy record.”
“There wasn’t an autopsy,” I said.
Detective Holt looked up.
“Why not?”
“Sarah said Dad’s doctor signed off.”
Mr. Alvarez handed her a paper from the folder.
“This is the doctor.”
Detective Holt read the name.
Her face changed.
“Dr. Lang.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“He’s under investigation for fraudulent death certifications.”
The room went silent.
Ethan was asleep in the hospital bed behind the curtain.
I looked at him.
He looked younger than eleven.
Tiny under the white blanket.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Detective Holt closed the folder.
“Now we treat your father’s death as suspicious.”
The word hit me like a door opening into darkness.
Suspicious.
Not final.
Not finished.
Not untouchable.
Sarah was arraigned that afternoon for child abuse, assault, unlawful restraint, and evidence tampering.
She pleaded not guilty.
Of course she did.
Her lawyer claimed I attacked her because I resented my stepmother.
He claimed Ethan was unstable after grief.
He claimed Sarah was a devoted widow overwhelmed by troubled children.
Troubled.
That word followed us everywhere.
By evening, reporters stood outside the hospital.
Someone leaked the story.
Teen Girl Attacks Stepmother After Garage Incident.
Sarah’s side got out first.
Rich widow.
Dead husband.
Difficult stepchildren.
I watched the headline on my phone until the letters blurred.
“She’s doing it again,” I whispered.
Nora from CPS sat beside me.
“Public opinion is not court.”
“No. But it becomes pressure.”
She looked at me, surprised.
“My dad taught me that.”
At sunset, Detective Holt returned with a flash drive.
Mr. Alvarez had given her the backup feed.
“There is more,” she said.
“How much more?”
“Months.”
I swallowed.
“Of Sarah hurting Ethan?”
Her expression softened.
“Some of that. But also conversations. Phone calls. Your father’s last weeks.”
I gripped the chair.
“Can I see?”
“Not all of it yet.”
“Detective—”
“Olivia, some of this may become homicide evidence.”
The word dropped between us.
Homicide.
Ethan woke at that exact moment.
“What’s homicide?”
I turned too fast.
His eyes were open.
Scared.
I went to him.
“It means the police are checking what happened to Dad.”
He stared at me.
“Sarah did something to him?”
I couldn’t lie.
“I don’t know.”
He looked at Detective Holt.
“She gave him tea every night.”
The detective’s face stilled.
“What kind of tea?”
Ethan hugged the blanket.
“The bitter kind. She said it helped him sleep. Dad hated it.”
My heart pounded.
“How do you know?”
May you like
Ethan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because he poured it in the plant once. The plant died.”
