“I went through everything,” she said. “Bank statements, credit-card bills, all of it. And I found these.”
I opened the folder. Inside were copies of credit-card statements from the three months before my grandfather died. There were charges to pharmacies, medical-supply companies, online retailers. Melissa had highlighted several entries in yellow.
“This one,” she pointed to a charge from an online pharmacy, “is for digitalis purpurea seeds. That’s foxglove. It contains digoxin naturally. You can extract it if you know how.”
My heart pounded.
“They bought the poison.”
“That’s not all.” She pulled out more papers. “Look at these bank statements. Two months before Grandpa died, their checking account was overdrawn by thirty thousand dollars. They had maxed out three credit cards. They were drowning in debt.”
I stared at the numbers. My parents had been nearly bankrupt. They’d made bad investments, overspent, and run themselves into a financial hole.
And then, conveniently, my grandfather died.
“And they inherited everything,” I said.
“There’s more,” Melissa said quietly.
She pulled out a small notebook.
“I found this hidden in Mom’s desk drawer. It’s her handwriting.”
I opened the notebook. The first few pages were ordinary. Grocery lists, appointment reminders, nothing unusual. But then I found a page dated three weeks before my grandfather’s death.
Jay says he’s changing the will. Giving half to Anna. Can’t let that happen. We’ll lose everything. Need to act fast.
My hands shook as I turned the page.
Research shows digoxin hard to detect. Natural compound. Could look like heart failure. Jay takes tea every morning. Easy to add to tea.
The next entries were dosage calculations. Research notes about how much digoxin would be needed to cause heart failure without being immediately obvious.
The final entry was dated the day after my grandfather died.
It’s done. Doctor said heart failure. No one suspects. We’re safe. Properties are ours.
I looked up at Melissa, and she was crying silently, tears streaming down her face.
“She killed him,” Melissa whispered. “Mom killed Grandpa. She planned it. She researched it. She did it. And Dad must have known. He helped cover it up.”
I carefully photographed every page with my phone, then looked at Melissa.
“Are you willing to testify to where you found these? To confirm this is your mother’s handwriting?”
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
“I have to. I can’t… I can’t protect them anymore. Not after this. Grandpa was good to us. He loved us. And they killed him for money.”
“Melissa, once we take this to the police, there’s no going back. They’ll be arrested. They’ll go to trial. Everything will come out.”
“I know.” Her voice was small but steady. “But it’s the right thing to do. You taught me that in the courtroom when you stood up for Clare. You showed me what it means to do the right thing even when it’s hard. Even when it costs you something.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.”
“Nothing about this is easy,” she said. “But Grandpa deserves justice, and you deserved better than what they did to you. I’m sorry it took me so long to see that.”
We went to the police station together. Catherine Morris, the DA, was called in, even though it was after hours. We laid out everything. The trust fund. Dr. Hayes’s statement. The financial records. The notebook.
Catherine’s expression grew darker with each piece of evidence.
“This is enough,” she said finally. “We can get a warrant. We’ll arrest them tonight.”
“Tonight?” Melissa’s voice cracked.
“The longer we wait, the more chance they have to destroy evidence or flee. If they realize what’s happening, they might run. We need to move fast.”
Two hours later, I sat in Catherine’s office, watching through a monitor as police officers arrived at my parents’ house. Melissa sat beside me, gripping my hand so tightly it hurt.
We watched our mother answer the door in her expensive robe, watched her face change from confusion to horror as the officers read her rights. We watched our father try to bluster his way out of it, watched him be handcuffed and led to a patrol car.
“It’s real,” Melissa whispered. “It’s really happening.”
I felt numb. All those years of being told I was worthless, of being thrown away like garbage—it all came from people who were capable of murder. People who had killed a kind old man because he wanted to make sure I was taken care of.
The arraignment was set for the next morning. Catherine had enough evidence for charges of first-degree murder, evidence tampering, and fraud. The bail was set at two million dollars, exactly the amount they’d received from my grandfather’s life insurance policy.
They couldn’t pay it. They’d spent most of the money already, and their assets were frozen pending investigation. My parents would sit in jail awaiting trial.
The news spread fast. Within 24 hours, every local station was covering the story.
Prominent landlords arrested for murder.
Woman discovers parents killed grandfather.
Twelve-year-old murder case reopened.
My face was everywhere, and so was Melissa’s. The press painted me as the heroic daughter who uncovered the truth, and painted my parents as monsters who’d literally gotten away with murder for over a decade.
The firm where I worked was flooded with calls. Some were from former tenants of my parents, wanting to share their own stories of abuse and negligence. Others were from attorneys offering support. A few were from news outlets wanting interviews.
But one call stood out. It came three days after my parents’ arrest, from a lawyer representing Clare, the tenant I defended in court.
“Anna, you need to know something,” the lawyer said. “After your parents were arrested, three other tenants came forward. They all had similar stories. Unsafe conditions, threats, intimidation. But one of them, a man named Thomas, said your father threatened him last year. Told him if he didn’t drop his complaints about a broken furnace, he’d ‘end up like your grandfather.’
Thomas thought it was just a figure of speech. But now… now it sounds like a confession.”
“I finished,” I said. “Exactly.”
“Thomas is willing to testify. This could strengthen the prosecution’s case even more.”
I thanked the lawyer and hung up.
My father had practically admitted to murder, had used my grandfather’s death as a threat. The arrogance of it, the absolute certainty that they’d gotten away with it and would never be caught—it made me sick.
That evening, Melissa and I met at my apartment. She’d moved out of our parents’ house, was staying with a friend while she figured out her next steps. She looked lost and broken, but there was something else in her eyes, too—a kind of clarity she’d never had before.
“I keep thinking about all the signs I missed,” she said. “Or maybe didn’t want to see. The way they talked about Grandpa after he died, like they were relieved more than sad. The way they spent money so freely right after the inheritance came through. How they always discouraged me from asking questions about his death.”
“You were young,” I said. “And they were your parents. You trusted them.”
“I shouldn’t have. I should have questioned things. Should have stood up for you when they kicked you out. Should have done a lot of things differently.”
She looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “You were caught in their web too. Just in a different way. They manipulated you, used you. But you broke free. That’s what matters.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
“What happens now?”
“Now we wait for trial. We testify. We make sure they never hurt anyone else again. And after that…”
I thought about it. After the trial, after justice was served, what would be left? Melissa and I would have each other, but we’d never have a family the way other people did. We’d never have parents we could trust. Holidays without ghosts. A past we could look back on without flinching.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe we could build something new. Something better. Maybe we could be the family we’d never had.
“After that,” I said, “we figure out how to move forward. Together.”
Melissa smiled, a fragile but genuine smile.
“Together,” she repeated.
Outside my apartment window, the sun was setting over Omaha. Tomorrow would bring more headlines, more questions, more pain to process.
But tonight, sitting with my sister, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
I felt like maybe, finally, things were going to be okay.
The trial began six months later in a courtroom packed with reporters, former tenants, and curious onlookers. I sat in the front row with Melissa, both of us dressed in dark, conservative suits. Across the aisle, my parents sat with their attorney, a desperate-looking man named Frank who’d taken their case because no one else would.
My mother looked nothing like the polished woman who’d walked into the courthouse six months ago. Her hair had gone gray, her expensive clothes replaced with an orange jumpsuit. She’d aged a decade in jail. My father sat hunched beside her, defeated before the trial even started.
Judge Hullbrook presided—the same judge who’d ruled in Clare’s favor. When she saw me, she gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. I nodded back.
The prosecution’s case was devastating. Catherine Morris laid out the evidence piece by piece, building an undeniable narrative of greed, premeditation, and murder.
She presented the financial records showing my parents’ desperate situation. She showed the notebook with my mother’s handwriting—her research into digoxin, her cold calculation of dosages and methods.
Dr. Hayes testified about the elevated digoxin levels, about my father’s bribe to keep him quiet. His voice shook as he admitted his complicity, as he apologized for staying silent for so long. Several jurors wiped their eyes as he spoke.
Henry Bradford, my grandfather’s attorney, testified about my mother’s suspicious visit, about her questions regarding the will. He explained how my grandfather had planned to change everything to give me half his estate, to ensure I was protected. He read my grandfather’s final wishes aloud, and my throat tightened hearing those words again.
Thomas, the former tenant, took the stand and recounted my father’s threat.
“He said if I didn’t shut up about the furnace, I’d end up like his father-in-law. I thought he was just being dramatic. Now I know he was confessing.”
When it was time for Melissa to testify, she walked to the stand with her head held high. She looked directly at our parents as she swore to tell the truth.
“Please describe what you found in your mother’s desk,” Catherine said.
Melissa’s voice was steady.
“I found a notebook in her handwriting. It detailed plans to poison my grandfather with digoxin extracted from foxglove seeds. It included dosage calculations and notes about how to administer it without detection. The final entry stated that it was done, that he died as planned, and that they were safe.”
My mother’s attorney tried to object, tried to claim the notebook could have been planted or forged, but handwriting experts had already confirmed it was my mother’s writing. There was no disputing it.
“Why did you come forward with this evidence?” Catherine asked.
Melissa looked at me, then back at the jury.
“Because my grandfather was a good man who loved us. He didn’t deserve to die for money. And my sister didn’t deserve to be thrown away like garbage because our parents were greedy. The truth matters more than protecting people who don’t deserve protection.”
My mother started crying then, loud, theatrical sobs. But no one in that courtroom had sympathy for her. The jury’s faces were stone.
When it was my turn to testify, I walked to the stand feeling strangely calm. I’d been preparing for this moment for months. But now that it was here, I felt detached, like I was watching myself from a distance.
Catherine asked me to describe my relationship with my parents, and I told the truth. All of it. The favoritism. The abuse. The day they threw me out. The years of homelessness and struggle. The way they’d tried to destroy my career when I dared to stand up to them.
“Why do you think they treated you this way?” Catherine asked.
“Because I represented something they couldn’t control,” I said. “Because my grandfather loved me, and they couldn’t stand that. Because if they acknowledged my worth, they’d have to confront their own cruelty. It was easier to pretend I was worthless than to admit they’d failed as parents.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
