Desmond: Stopped at the pharmacy. Got what we need. She won’t feel a thing.
Sloan: I’m practicing my crying. Need to look devastated when the ambulance comes. Think you can pull off the grieving son?
Desmond: I’ve been playing that role my whole life.
That last sentence hit like a punch.
My whole life.
The loving son. The grateful son. The grieving son.
All of it had been a role.
“How long?” I asked, my voice cracking. “How long has he been planning this?”
“Based on our investigation,” Reeves said, “he learned about the policy in October of last year through connections at his firm. Someone in the legal department handling the probate. He immediately began distancing himself from you, establishing a pattern of separation. It’s less suspicious when you suddenly appear for Christmas and die.”
October.
Thirteen months ago—right when the silence began.
“He’s been planning my death for over a year,” I whispered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Reeves pulled out more evidence—computer printouts of searches from Desmond’s laptop:
Untraceable poisons. Heart attack symptoms. How to fake grief. Inheritance laws. Insurance payout timelines.
I gripped the edge of the table. My fingers were numb.
“There’s more,” Reeves said, and his voice changed—softer, careful. “And this is the hardest part.”
I looked up.
“Your son’s first wife.”
“First wife?” My throat tightened. “Desmond was never married before Sloan.”
Reeves didn’t blink.
“Her name was Caroline Brennan. They were married fifteen years ago when your son was thirty. The marriage lasted about two years. Caroline died of what was ruled an accidental drug overdose.”
The room spun.
I never knew.
He never told me.
Why wouldn’t he tell me he was married?
Reeves slid a photo across the table: a young woman with auburn hair and a bright smile. She looked like someone who used to laugh easily.
“Caroline had a life insurance policy worth five hundred thousand. Your son was the sole beneficiary.”
My stomach dropped through the floor.
“But—if he—if he—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“The payout went through because the death was ruled accidental,” Reeves said. “But Caroline’s family always suspected foul play. They pushed for investigation, but there wasn’t enough evidence. The case was closed.”
I stared at Caroline’s photo until my vision blurred.
My son had done this before.
Not just planned it.
Succeeded.
Reeves continued, voice steady. “After Caroline’s death, your son waited six months and then met Sloan. Sloan comes from a wealthy family, but the money is tied up in a trust she can’t access until she’s fifty. Meanwhile your son has been living beyond his means. Bad investments. Risky moves at his firm.”
He paused.
“He needed cash, Mrs. Callaway. And when he found out about your inheritance, you became his solution.”
My mouth was dry. My entire body felt hollowed out.
“This isn’t my son,” I whispered.
Reeves didn’t argue.
Because the evidence on the table was the argument.
I swallowed hard. “Caroline’s family… do they know?”
“We contacted them this morning,” Reeves said. “They’re devastated, but grateful. This gives them closure. Justice.”
The door opened.
A woman entered—Hispanic, maybe mid-forties—wearing regular clothes now instead of a uniform. Her eyes met mine and filled with tears.
Anise.
She crossed the room and sat beside me.
“Mrs. Callaway,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what he did. For what he tried to do.”
I grabbed her hand.
“You saved my life,” I said. “You risked everything to save me.”
Anise’s tears spilled freely. “I couldn’t let him hurt you. I saw your photo in his office. You looked like my mother. She raised me alone too. Worked so hard. When I heard them planning, I thought… what if someone tried to hurt her?”
We sat there holding hands.
Two women connected by one monster and one moment of courage.
Reeves cleared his throat. “Mrs. Rodriguez has agreed to testify. With her evidence and our surveillance, we have a strong case. Your son and his wife are being charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”
“If convicted?” I asked, though my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
“Fifteen to twenty years minimum.”
“Will Anise be safe?” I asked.
“She’s in protective custody starting tonight,” Reeves said. “New identity, relocation assistance. Full witness protection.”
Anise squeezed my hand. “It’s okay. I knew the risks. Some things are worth risking everything for.”
I looked at her and felt something inside me crack open again—not pain this time, but awe.
A stranger had shown me more love in one moment than my own son had in a year.
By the time I left the station, it was dark.
My phone buzzed with a new text from an unknown number.
Drop the charges or I tell everyone what you really are. I have dirt on you. Don’t test me.
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