He opened the envelope and began to read.
“Rosalind, I’m writing this because I know you’re drowning. I saw the letters from the creditors. Eight hundred thousand. The threats. I know they’re coming for you. And I know you, Rosalind, better than you think. When people are desperate, when they’re cornered with no way out, they start looking at things that don’t belong to them. They start seeing other people’s lives as obstacles. I’m afraid that when you learn about the conditions of this trust—the twenty-five nights you’ll have to wait—you’ll start thinking of darker ways to speed up the process. I don’t know what you’ll do. I don’t know if you’ll actually go through with it. But I’m begging you—don’t become the kind of person who harms others just because of numbers on paper. Your mother loves you more than her own life. But if you take her life to get what you want, you won’t just lose her—you’ll lose yourself. Prove that my worst fear about you is wrong. —Dad.”
Warren set the letter down.
Silence.
Rosalind’s face had gone white. Her hands were shaking.
Naomi stared at her. “What is he talking about?”
Celeste leaned forward. “Eight hundred thousand. You owe that much.”
“It’s none of your business,” Rosalind said quietly.
“It is our business,” Violet said.
I stood up, walked to the coffee table, picked up the folder, and set it down in front of Rosalind.
“Open it,” I said.
Her hands shook as she opened the folder.
Inside: screenshots of eight browser tabs. Life insurance payout timeline. Accidental death inheritance laws. Probate duration in North Carolina. The emails from R. Sullivan Private Investigations. The payment receipt. The surveillance report detailing my routine, my sleeping pills, the steep staircase.
Her face went gray.
“Your father was right to be afraid,” I said quietly.
Naomi grabbed the folder and read the pages. Her face twisted with shock.
“You hired someone to watch Mom?”
“I wasn’t going to do it,” Rosalind said, tears streaming. “I swear. I was desperate.”
“You were planning ways to make it look like an accident,” Celeste said coldly.
“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” Rosalind sobbed.
She covered her face. “I hate myself. I hate who I’ve become.”
I looked at my daughter—the woman who’d once fought bullies to protect strangers.
“Your father gave you a chance,” I said softly.
Rosalind looked up, face wet with tears.
“He didn’t know the details,” I said. “He didn’t know you’d hire an investigator. But he knew you. He knew your desperation, and he feared this might happen.”
“He saw through me,” Rosalind whispered. “Even before I did it.”
“Yes,” I said.
Naomi stood. “Mom, you can’t let her stay.”
I looked at each of them—my four daughters who were afraid, not for my life, but for their inheritance.
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