“How much for another week of monitoring? I need to know her exact schedule before I make any decisions.”
I backed away from the laptop, my heart pounding so hard I thought I’d pass out.
She was planning to harm me—to make it look like an accident—to get the inheritance faster.
I stood in that room for a long time, staring at the screen. I thought about calling the police, telling my other daughters, sending Rosalind away right now.
But then I remembered something.
Six weeks ago, my husband sitting at the dining table writing letter eighteen.
“She owes eight hundred thousand,” he’d said. “And when desperate people see money within reach, they do desperate things.”
He hadn’t known about the private investigator. He hadn’t known about the emails or the browser tabs. But he’d known her desperation—her debt—and he’d feared this might happen.
That’s why he wrote letter eighteen. Not as proof. As a warning.
Don’t stop her, he told me. Let her read letter eighteen. Let her see that I knew, that I was afraid, and let her choose.
I closed the laptop and walked out of the room. My hands were still shaking.
I went downstairs, sat in the living room, and stared at the coffee table.
Nine envelopes left.
Letter seventeen tomorrow night. Letter eighteen the night after that.
Two more nights.
Two more nights and Rosalind would hear her father’s words: I know you’re drowning, and I’m afraid of what you might do. But I’m begging you—don’t do it. Don’t lose yourself.
Would it be enough? Would she stop?
I didn’t know.
But my husband had believed she could still be saved.
So I’d wait.
Two more nights.
I went upstairs and passed Rosalind’s room. The door was still open. The laptop still glowing.
I didn’t go inside.
I went to my own room, locked the door, checked the lock twice. Then I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall.
Was I gambling with my own life?
Maybe.
But it was the only way to know if she could still be saved.
I thought about the sleeping pills in my bathroom, the steep staircase, the way Rosalind had looked at me tonight during the reading—cold, calculating.
I stood, walked to the bathroom, took the bottle of sleeping pills, and locked them in the drawer beside my bed. Then I moved a chair in front of my bedroom door, just in case.
Two more nights, I thought as I lay down in the dark. Then she’ll know that I know, and I’ll find out if my husband was right to believe in her, or if I should have called the police tonight.
If you’re still here, I want to pause for just a moment. At this point in the story, I genuinely want to know how this situation feels to you. If you were in my place, would you confront the truth head-on or stay silent and wait? Share your perspective in the comments. Let’s talk about it together before what happens next.
And just so you know, the following part of this story includes dramatized and fictional elements that may not reflect real events. If this isn’t something you wish to continue with, you’re free to stop watching here.
Night eighteen.
All five daughters sat in the living room. I sat in my chair by the window, watching Rosalind. She looked calm. Too calm.
Warren stood by the fireplace holding envelope eighteen. He looked at me. I nodded.
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
