Chapter 7

"Mommy."

I jerked my head up.

April had come in at some point and was standing next to me.

I quickly locked my phone and forced a smile.

"What's wrong?"

She held up a velvet box, beaming.

"Mommy, look! I found a secret treasure!"

In the bedroom, April and I sat on the rug, slowly opening the box.

The first thing I saw was a beautiful card.

Written on it was a line of bold, flowing handwriting.

Even though April was young, Silas took time every night to teach her to read, so she knew a lot of words.

She looked at the card and read it word by word.

[Happy Birthday to my most beautiful Queen. Stay happy and gorgeous forever! Love you always and forever, Silas.]

"Haha, it's a birthday present from Daddy for you."

I stared silently at the property deed inside the box.

It was for a top-tier art gallery in Manhattan.

I had casually mentioned once that I loved the artistic vibe there, but the price tag was astronomical, so it was just passing talk.

I never expected Silas to secretly buy it.

My birthday was next week.

He was probably planning to surprise me.

April suddenly hugged me, her voice thick with tears.

"Mommy, why isn't Daddy back yet? I miss him so much. I think about him every night and I can't sleep. When is Daddy coming back?"

I reached out and held her tight.

"Daddy went somewhere very far away. It will be a long, long time before he comes back. Don't be scared, April. Mommy will always be here with you."

A tear quietly fell onto her hair.

Then another.

By the time April slowly fell asleep in her princess bed, her eyes were still swollen and red.

I kissed her little face, stood up, and left the nursery.

Late at night, a thunderstorm raged outside.

Accompanied by the thunder, I walked through the silent house.

Down the hall. Into the pool room.

The room where Silas died.

I pulled out my phone and opened Martha's stream.

She was still live.

There were more listeners now. The comments were flying by as the internet tried to help her analyze motives.

She stared intensely at the screen, answering them one by one.

"It wasn't a crime of passion. The authorities checked. Neither of them was having an affair."

"It wasn't for money either. She runs her own gallery, she never touched the Family business. She can't easily access Silas's assets anyway."

"There was no massive life insurance policy."

"..."

I set my phone on the vanity.

Against the backdrop of Martha answering the internet, I slowly turned and looked at the wall.

There was a relief tile embedded in the corner, perfectly flush.

I walked over slowly.

Lightning flashed outside the window.

The pool room's overhead lights buzzed and flickered twice.

Without looking up, I wedged my fingers around the tile and pried. A hidden compartment swung open.

Inside was a thick stack of handwritten notes.

"One raised in an orphanage, the other in a mafia family. Their paths had never crossed."

To the sound of Martha's voice, I slowly straightened up from the compartment.

I flipped through the notes page by page.

Every page was covered in writing.

Filled with diagrams calculating ventilation airflow and plant toxin extraction.

From the evaporation rate of water vapor, the volatilization speed of essential oils, to the dosage required for human inhalation...

I stopped on one particular page.

A neat line of small text was written across the top.

[Oleander Toxicity Thresholds & Paralysis Timeline]

The drawing in the center was exactly that of an adult male body lying face-up in a thermal pool, the water slowly rising over his mouth and nose.

I walked over to the fireplace and threw all the notes in.

Another flash of lightning tore through the sky, and the lights suddenly went out.

The pool room was plunged into darkness.

I struck a match and tossed it into the fireplace.

The flames slowly spread, licking at the paper.

All the handwriting and diagrams slowly turned to ash...

I actually hate writing by hand.

But anything digital leaves a trace.

After stirring the black ash in the fireplace until it was nothing but dust, I turned back and stared at the jumping audio waves on my phone.

In the dark, silent space, a low whisper echoed:

"Martha, why did you think it was me from the very beginning...?"

At that exact moment, Martha spoke into the microphone on the stream.

"Why on earth did she want my son dead...?"