The soil landed heavily on the coffin lid.
Every dull strike penetrated Stella’s breast. Nancy, her daughter, died abruptly on a rainy highway when she was only eighteen years old. Stella’s husband, Victor, stood out, his face a mask she had never been able to read. In two decades of marriage, she had never shown what was beneath that guarded expression.
“It’s time to leave,” he said as the mourning faded away. In the car, he spoke firmly and practically. “We need to go to the donation center.” We should gather Nancy’s belongings and distribute them immediately.”
Stella felt an icy dread seize her heart. “Victor, the funeral ended only hours ago.”
“That’s the point,” he replied sharply, eyes fixed on the road. “Holding on makes it worse. It’s like ripping off a bandage. Quick is kinder.”
This man felt unfamiliar. Or maybe, she was finally seeing him for what he was. That night, she awoke to his hushed voice in the hallway. “Everything is on track,” he whispered into his phone. “Tomorrow the items go. No, she doesn’t suspect.”
The next morning, Victor hauled boxes into their room. “Movers are coming the day after tomorrow,” he declared. “Today, everything gets packed.” He gave her a list with every aspect of Nancy’s life organized for disposal.
“Victor, I can’t,” she begged as her voice broke.
His expression contorted with rage. “Quit clinging to the past! “Do you think this is easier for me?” Then he softened and took her into his arms. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “This will help both of us recuperate. “Trust me.”
She nodded faintly, too weary to fight. Maybe he was right.
Alone, Stella entered Nancy’s room. It was bright and warm, preserved in time. She sat on the bed where they had whispered for hours about school, boys, and Nancy’s dream of studying marine biology. She opened the closet and began folding clothes, each one a memory. A graduation gown. A scarf. Then Nancy’s favorite silk dress. Stella held it to her face, breathing in her daughter’s fading scent.
Victor appeared without knocking. He yanked the dress from her hands. “This won’t help anyone now. Don’t torture yourself.” Tossing it into a donation bag, he walked away.
Stella glanced at the door, her resolve tightening. Something wasn’t right. Her attention shifted to Nancy’s backpack. Inside, among the books, she discovered a folded note written in Nancy’s hurried, uncomfortable hand.
Mom, if you see this, please look behind my bed immediately. You will understand.
Her heart beat wildly. She dropped on her knees. A sealed black box was taped to the far corner of the bed frame. Victor’s footsteps echoed down the hallway as she touched it.
By dinner, Stella had hidden the box inside the bathroom vent, the one place Victor never checked. She came downstairs wearing her mask of grief.
“I made a big donation to the school,” Victor said over delivered food. “They’ll put up a plaque for Nancy.”
Stella examined him closely. Where did he find the money? The papers she had uncovered revealed debts. Unless… insurance.
“That’s generous,” she responded calmly, “considering our finances.”
“Business has improved,” he shrugged. “To Nancy’s memory.” He raised his glass. As he turned, she caught a short flicker of his hand over her drink. Paranoia? Or an alert?
“I’ll take a sedative instead,” she said, standing. Later, in the bedroom, Victor waited with water and two unfamiliar tablets. He watched closely as she pretended to swallow. Once he left, she spat them into a tissue. She would test them later.
By morning, she knew she had to act. “I need to stop by work,” she lied. “Some documents to sign.”
“I’ll order a taxi,” he insisted. “I’ll track it to make sure you arrive safely.”
She felt a cold run through her body. He was watching her every move. She improvised, walking out a block early and messaging the only person she could trust: Rick Phillips, an old family friend and retired investigator. Urgent. Life or passing away.
They met twenty minutes later in a riverbank café. “Stella,” he murmured, expressing anxiety. “What’s going on?”
“Nancy didn’t die by accident,” she exclaimed. “Victor planned it for insurance.” Now he wants me gone, too.”
Rick’s face tightened when she showed him photographs of the paperwork. Nancy, as astute as usual, had accumulated everything: Victor’s debts, his mistress, hefty policies, and damaging texts from a mechanic about “fixing the problem with the stepdaughter.”
“And this,” she added, showing him the tissue with the pills.
Rick photographed them. “I’ll have these tested. If I’m right, it’s enough. Wear this.” He handed her a button-sized microphone. “It records straight to me. Get him talking.”
“I must return,” she said. “The originals are still at the house.”
“Careful, Stella,” he warned. “Your safety comes first.”
When she got back, movers were still inside. Victor oversaw them coldly. “Where were you?” he demanded.
“The meeting took longer,” she answered calmly.
While he supervised, she slipped into the bathroom. The box was gone.
Terror struck her. He knew. She stepped out and froze. Victor stood waiting.
“Lose something?” he asked softly. He dangled a flash drive—the one from Nancy’s box.
“Nancy was clever,” he said quietly. “Too clever. She became a problem.”
“A problem for what?” Stella asked, heart pounding. The microphone recorded.
“For a new life,” he shrugged. “I’m done with this marriage, this house. I needed money. Nancy’s policy was step one. Yours is next.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “A tragic accident. A grieving husband collects insurance, then disappears.”
“You’re vile.”
“I’m practical,” he said coldly. “Nancy ruined it. Now you’re doing the same.” He stepped closer. “Who did you meet? Who saw the documents?”
She remained mute. He raised his phone. “No matter. GPS tracking is useful. He showed her the cab route, which ended at the Riviera Cafe. “Now, who was there?” He accessed security footage.
The movers shouted downstairs. Victor carried her to the closet and expertly taped her wrists and lips. “Stay quiet,” he snarled before locking the door.
Panic rose. The microphone. Rick must’ve heard. But would he arrive in time? She saw her phone on the dresser. With shackled hands, she hurriedly typed: Bedroom, second floor, assistance.
Victor returned as the movers departed. She grabbed a lamp and hid behind the door. When he entered, she swung.
He stumbled but didn’t fall. Stronger, he hurled her against the wall. From a suitcase, he pulled a syringe. “I wanted it quick, painless,” he growled. “Now it changes. You’ll confess everything. Then we’ll drive to the bridge where Nancy crashed. A grieving mother who couldn’t go on.”
He lunged. She dodged. The needle snapped against wood. Furious, he seized her throat. “Who knows?” he roared.
Her vision darkened. With her last strength, she kneed him. He gasped, releasing her. She bolted, but he caught her hair. “You’re not leaving,” he snarled, raising a fist.
She braced, but a voice cut through.
“Police! Hands up, Parker!”
Rick stood, his rifle lifted.
Victor froze and then sneered. “This is nonsensical. It was just a family squabble.”
“A quarrel with poison and a confession?” Rick spoke grimly. “It’s all recorded. My squad has a mechanic. He admitted that you bribed him to sabotage Nancy’s car.
Victor’s eyes shot wildly. He lunged for the window and jumped to the roof as officers stormed in.
While Rick chased him outside, Stella remembered the backpack. She rushed to the garage. She discovered Nancy’s backpack in Victor’s trunk, alongside a gas can and a rope. A suicide kit, faked.
She brought it out just as Rick returned with officers, hauling Victor, handcuffed.
“It’s finished,” Rick said gently. “He can’t hurt anyone again.”
Stella sobbed for Nancy and everything she had lost.
“I know,” Rick said softly, embracing her. “But now Nancy has justice. “And you have a future.”
She stared at the house, which had once been Nancy’s home but was now a site of terror. “I’ll pack my things,” she said quietly. “I’ll never come back here.”
She would gradually heal. For Nancy.
