Part 3
Brenda worked quickly and silently while Mark and Rachel had breakfast on the patio. In twenty minutes, all three cameras were installed and working.
I checked the app on my phone. The images were clear. The audio was perfect.
“Excellent work, Brenda.”
“To serve you, Ms. Helen,” she murmured. “These two don’t know who they messed with.”
At ten o’clock sharp, just as Rachel had said, the appraiser arrived—a man in his fifties with a briefcase and a professional camera. Mark led him in through the garden door.
From my room, through the cameras, I watched them move through my house like vultures. The appraiser took photos, made notes, evaluating every piece of furniture, every artwork, every detail.
“This lamp is an antique Tiffany,” he was saying, pointing to the crystal chandelier in the dining room that I had bought in New York. “It’s worth at least fifty thousand.”
“What about the piano?” Rachel asked.
“That’s an original Steinway. One hundred thousand, easy.”
Mark smiled as he totaled the figures.
“How much in total for all the contents of the house? Not counting the house itself.”
“You’re talking about four hundred thousand in furnishings, art, and objects.”
“Incredible,” Rachel whispered. “It’s more than I thought.”
“When can we proceed with the sale?” Mark asked.
The appraiser looked at him with some discomfort.
“Is your mother agreeable to this?”
“My mother is very ill. She has days left,” Mark said. “She gave me complete authorization to handle her affairs.”
The lie came so naturally from his lips.
“I understand,” the appraiser said. “Well, I’ll need legal documents to prove that authorization.”
“We’ll have them soon,” Mark assured him.
I recorded everything—every word, every gesture, every complicit glance between Mark and Rachel.
After the appraiser left, they came up to my room with papers in hand and fake smiles on their faces.
“Mom, you’re awake,” Mark said with nauseating sweetness. “We need you to sign these papers. They are for the health insurance so we can pay your treatments without issues.”
I looked at the papers. They were property transfers, documents that would give them total control of my estate.
“I can’t see well,” I murmured. “The letters are blurry.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom. Just sign here.”
Mark put the pen in my hand. I let my hand tremble exaggeratedly.
“I can’t, son. It hurts too much. Tomorrow, please.”
I saw frustration in his eyes, but he nodded.
“It’s all right, Mom. Tomorrow.”
When they left, I heard them in the hall.
“She’s getting difficult,” Mark growled. “Call Frank. Have him come tonight. I’m tired of waiting.”
My heart pounded.
They were going to try to kill me tonight.
I immediately called Sarah.
“I need you to come now—with police if possible. They are going to try something tonight.”
“Calm down, Ms. Helen,” Sarah said. “I already anticipated this. I’ve been working with a private detective. We’ve been monitoring Frank, the hospital employee. We have recordings of Mark offering him money. He’ll be arrested today.”
“Today?”
“In two hours.”
“And when they do, Mark will get very nervous,” Sarah continued. “That’s when they make mistakes. That’s when we get more evidence.”
I hung up, feeling a mix of fear and satisfaction. The trap was closing, but something was still missing. I still needed more to completely destroy them.
That afternoon, Dr. Henry came to do a routine checkup. In front of Mark, his diagnosis was devastating.
“Ms. Helen is deteriorating rapidly. Her vital signs are weak. I estimate she has a maximum of three days left.”
Mark tried to look sad, but I saw the relief on his face.
Three days, he thought.
Three days until the end of his world, I thought.
At six in the evening, my phone vibrated with news that filled me with satisfaction. Sarah sent me a message.
Frank arrested. He confessed everything. Mentioned Mark’s name. The police want to talk to your son.
I smiled from my bed. The first domino had just fallen.
An hour later, two detectives knocked on my door. From my room, through the cameras, I watched Mark open it with a confident expression that turned to panic when he saw the badges.
“Mark Harrison?” one of the detectives asked.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s going on?”
“We need to ask you some questions about Frank Herrera. Do you know him?”
I saw the color drain from Mark’s face.
“Frank who? No, that name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“That’s strange,” the detective said. “He says you offered him fifty thousand dollars to accelerate the death of your mother, who is ill in this house.”
Rachel appeared behind Mark, her eyes wide.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “My husband would never do something like that.”
“We have recordings,” the detective replied. “Frank was smarter than your husband thought.”
Mark stammered.
“That’s a lie. Frank is lying. He probably wants money. He’s making things up.”
“So you completely deny knowing him?”
“Yes. I completely deny it.”
The detective nodded slowly.
“Interesting, because we have phone records showing seventeen calls between your number and Frank’s in the last two weeks. Also, some quite explicit text messages.”
Mark was sweating.
“I want to speak to an attorney.”
“You can do that,” the detective said, “but know that we are investigating attempted murder. If you have anything to tell us, now is the time.”
“I have nothing to say without my attorney.”
The detectives left, but they left a card.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Harrison. Detective Tavier. Don’t leave the state.”
As soon as the door closed, Mark exploded.
“Damn Frank. That idiot betrayed me.”
Rachel paced back and forth, hysterical.
“They’re going to arrest us, Mark. They’re going to put us in jail. What are we going to do?”
“Calm down,” Mark snapped. “They don’t have real evidence—just the words of a desperate orderly. Any good attorney can destroy that in court.”
“What if your mother finds out?”
Mark looked thoughtful.
“It doesn’t matter. She only has two or three days left anyway. By the time this goes to trial, she’ll be dead, and we’ll have the money to pay the best attorneys in the country.”
“What if she changes her will before she dies?”
“She can’t. She’s too weak. Besides, she doesn’t know anything that’s going on.”
How wrong my son was.
I recorded every word of that conversation—every admission of guilt, every twisted plan.
That night, Sarah returned with more documents. She had completed the audit of my accounts, and what she found made my blood boil.
“Mark has been stealing from you for two years,” she explained, showing me pages and pages of transfers. “He started with small amounts—five thousand here, ten thousand there. But in the last six months, he got bolder. He’s taken a total of three hundred and twenty thousand dollars from your accounts.”
“Three hundred and twenty thousand,” I repeated, feeling nauseated.
“It all went to casinos, debt payments, luxury purchases for Rachel. There are receipts for twenty thousand-dollar designer handbags, a forty-thousand-dollar watch, trips to Las Vegas.”
“How did he get access to my accounts?”
“He forged your signature on bank documents two years ago,” Sarah said. “I have the original copies. A handwriting expert can easily prove the fraud.”
“I want him prosecuted for every penny stolen.”
Sarah smiled.
“I’ve already prepared the lawsuit—fraud, theft, document forgery—but we will wait for the perfect moment to file it, when they are most confident.”
“What about the hospital employee—Frank?”
“He is cooperating completely. In exchange for a reduced sentence, he will testify against Mark. He has texts, call recordings, everything. Mark even sent him a ten-thousand-dollar advance via bank transfer.”
Sarah’s eyes hardened.
“That single transaction is sufficient evidence of conspiracy to murder.”
I leaned back on the pillow, processing everything. My son didn’t just wish for my death. He had financed it. He had paid in advance to ensure I died.
“When do we present everything to the authorities?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Sarah said. “We need the final blow. We need to catch them attempting something else—something so unquestionable that no attorney can defend them.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Sarah leaned forward.
“Will you sign those transfer papers they want so badly? But you will sign fake versions that I will prepare—documents with no legal value. They will think they won, that they have total control of your estate. They will become careless. They will openly celebrate. They will talk without filtering, and the cameras will record everything.”
“Their own arrogance will be their condemnation,” I said.
“Exactly.”
The next day, I pretended to be worse. I could barely speak. I barely opened my eyes.
Dr. Henry came and gave an even more grave prognosis in front of Mark and Rachel.
“Twenty-four hours. Forty-eight at most. Her body is shutting down.”
“Will she suffer much?” Mark asked.
The doctor looked at him with a mix of disguised disgust and professionalism.
“We will do everything possible to keep her comfortable.”
When Mark and Rachel left the room, Henry approached me.
“This is coming to an end, Helen. Are you ready?”
“More than ready,” I said. “I want to see their faces when they find out the truth.”
That afternoon, Brenda helped me sit up in bed. Sarah had prepared the fake documents perfectly. They looked legal, official, with seals and notary signatures that were, of course, completely invalid.
Mark entered with Rachel, both with barely contained expressions of urgency.
“Mom, we need you to sign today. We can’t wait any longer. The doctors say that maybe tomorrow you won’t be able to… you know.”
“I understand, son,” I whispered weakly. “Give me the papers.”
I saw the excitement in their eyes. I was finally going to give them what they wanted—or so they thought.
With a trembling hand, I signed each document: property transfers, bank account access, absolute powers of attorney. All fake. All legally worthless.
But they didn’t know it.
“Thank you, Mom,” Mark said, kissing my forehead. “Rest now. Everything will be fine.”
That kiss sent shivers down my spine.
As soon as they left the room, I heard them shout with happiness in the hallway.
“We have it. We finally have it!”
Rachel was celebrating.
“Seven million, honey. Seven million. We are rich. Officially rich.”
They went down to the living room, exactly where one of the cameras perfectly focused on them. Mark opened a bottle of expensive French champagne from my private cellar.
“To my dear mother,” he said sarcastically, raising his glass. “May she rest in peace very soon.”
Rachel laughed.
“We’re finally getting rid of the old lady. I thought this day would never come. Tomorrow I’m calling the bank. We’re transferring everything to our accounts before she dies. That way there are no legal complications.”
“And if they ask anything,” Mark said, “we have the signed papers. It’s completely legal.”
He smiled wickedly.
“Well… almost legal.”
“What are we doing first with the money?” Rachel asked.
“Paying off my debts,” Mark said. “Eight hundred thousand in one go. After that, that penthouse we saw in Miami—three million—and then travel. Europe, Asia, wherever we want. And the house—we’re selling it furnished. Two point eight million. I don’t want to stay here one day longer after she dies.”
They drank more champagne, getting drunker, becoming more reckless with their words.
“You know what’s the funniest thing?” Rachel said. “She thought you were a good son until the end. She died believing you loved her.”
Mark let out a loud laugh.
“I loved her money. She as a person was always unbearable—controlling, critical, nosy.”
“Let’s toast to that,” Rachel said. “To her imminent death and our permanent freedom.”
They clinked glasses again, completely unaware that every word, every gesture, every admission of contempt was being recorded in high definition.
From my room, with my phone in hand, I sent the videos in real time to Sarah. Her response was immediate.
Perfect. This is gold. With this, plus the other evidence, we will destroy them in court.
“When do you want to execute the final plan?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. I needed it to be public, to be devastating, with no way for them to escape.
“Tomorrow,” I replied. “Organize the family meeting we discussed. Invite everyone.”
“Are you sure?” Sarah wrote back. “It will be brutal.”
“I know,” I answered, “and that’s exactly why I want to do it.”
The next morning dawned with bright sunshine that contrasted with the storm that was about to break.
Sarah had worked all night organizing what she called the truth meeting. She had contacted my brother Michael, who lived in Oregon and knew nothing of my supposed terminal condition. She also invited three notaries, two attorney witnesses, and the detectives who had interrogated Mark the day before.
Mark and Rachel knew nothing of this. They thought it was just another day waiting for my death.
At nine in the morning, Mark entered my room with a smile he no longer bothered to hide.
“Good morning, Mom. How did you sleep?”
“Very poorly, son,” I whispered. “I think today is my last day.”
I saw his eyes shine with barely contained excitement.
“Don’t say that, Mom,” he said. “Although if it is your time, I want you to know I always loved you.”
Liar until the end.
“Mark,” I said, “I want to ask you a favor. I want to see the whole family one last time—your uncle Michael, the important people in my life. A proper goodbye.”
Mark frowned.
“Mom, Uncle Michael lives five hours away. He won’t make it in time.”
“He’s already on his way,” I said. “I called him last night. He’ll arrive by noon. Please, son. It’s my last wish.”
He couldn’t refuse without seeming like the monster he was.
“All right, Mom,” he said, tight-lipped. “As you wish.”
“And I want it in the big living room,” I added. “I want to go downstairs. I want to be surrounded by my things one last time.”
“Mom, you’re too weak to go downstairs.”
“Brenda will help me. Please, Mark. It’s the only thing I ask.”
He sighed, clearly annoyed by the complication, but nodded.
“As you wish.”
At eleven, Brenda helped me get dressed. I put on a lavender dress I had always liked, combed my hair, even put on a little makeup.
Mark and Rachel thought it was my final vanity, my wish to look presentable in my last hours.
They didn’t know it was my war armor.
When I walked down the stairs, leaning on Brenda, I saw the living room was already set up. Mark had placed chairs in a circle, like an anticipated wake.
How appropriate.
I sat in my favorite armchair—the same one where I had spent thousands of nights reading, planning my businesses, building my empire.
Michael arrived exactly at noon. My younger brother, fifty-eight years old, rushed in with tears in his eyes.
“Helen, sis. I came as fast as I could. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Michael,” I said. “Better than I expected.”
I gave his hand a significant squeeze. He understood that something was going on.
Mark greeted his uncle coldly. They had never gotten along. Michael had always seen through Mark’s lies.
“Who else is coming?” Rachel asked, nervous to see this was getting bigger than they expected.
“My attorney, Sarah,” I said, “and some people who need to be present.”
“Your attorney for what?” Rachel asked.
May you like
“For the reading of my will, Rachel,” I said. “I thought you’d like to hear it before I die, so there are no surprises.”
I saw Mark and Rachel exchange nervous glances. This made them anxious, but they couldn’t refuse without raising suspicion.
