"My pregnant daughter was resting in a casket—and her husband arrived acting like it was a gala. He strolled in laughing with his mistress on his arm, her heels echoing on the chapel tiles like applause. She even leaned in close and whispered, “Guess I win.” I choked back my scream and stared at my daughter’s pale fingers, still, forever. Then the attorney stepped toward the altar, clutching a sealed envelope. “Before she is laid to rest,” he declared, his voice cutting, “her final testament must be read.” My son-in-law smirked—until the attorney spoke the first name. And the arrogance melted right off his face."

Vivienne called me at midnight.

“He hid them in a hollowed-out shaving cream can,” she whispered frantically. “I found the vials. Small glass bottles with no labels.”

“Bring them to the penthouse,” I ordered.

“No!” she panicked. “He’ll know I took them. He’s waking up. You have to come here. Please, Eleanor, he’ll kill me!”

I hung up the phone. I didn't call the police immediately. I needed Julian to incriminate himself on tape, with the physical evidence in his hands, leaving no room for a high-priced defense attorney to create reasonable doubt.

I drove to the rundown motel on the outskirts of the city. I wore a heavy coat, a hidden wire taped to my chest, and a recording device synced directly to Mr. Thorne and a private investigator waiting in a van two blocks away.

I knocked on room 114.

The door swung open, and Julian stood there, looking like a cornered animal. He held a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand. Vivienne was cowering in the corner of the filthy room.