Chapter 3 - THE SECRET IN THE FLOORBOARDS
Headline: While her husband thought she was sleeping off his poison upstairs, she broke into his private home office—and uncovered a conspiracy that went far deeper than just a cheating spouse.
I stood in the center of the guest bedroom, listening intently. Below me, I could hear the muffled sounds of Eric moving around the kitchen, putting away the groceries.
I knew I only had a limited window of time.
I slipped off my shoes and crept out of the room, moving silently down the hallway toward Eric’s private home office. It was a room he kept strictly locked, claiming his financial consulting work involved sensitive client data that had to be protected under federal compliance laws. He kept the key on his keychain, which was currently downstairs on the kitchen counter.
But Eric didn't know that I knew about the spare key.
Ten years ago, when we had the house remodeled, the contractor had hidden a spare key to the office inside a hollowed-out decorative wooden trim above the doorframe. I reached up, my fingers brushing against the dust, until they clicked against cold brass.
I took the key, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. The door opened with a faint click.
The office was immaculate. Dark wood, heavy leather chairs, shelves lined with financial textbooks. I walked straight to his mahogany desk. I tried the drawers. Locked.
I didn't have the key for the desk, but I didn't need it.
I knew Eric. He was a creature of habit, but he was also arrogant. He believed I was a fragile, brain-fogged housewife who couldn't even remember her own phone number. He wouldn't think he needed high-security measures against me.
I knelt down on the floor behind his desk. Our house had old, tongue-and-groove oak floorboards. Underneath the heavy wool rug, near the corner of the desk, there was a loose floorboard that had always squeaked when we first moved in. Eric had supposedly fixed it years ago.
I pulled back the heavy rug.
Sure enough, the brass screws holding that particular board down were brand new, but they weren't fully tightened. I used a small metal nail file from my pocket to slowly unscrew them. My hands were sweating, making the metal slip.
Come on, come on, I prayed, listening for any sound from downstairs.
The screws came out. I lifted the section of oak board.
Inside the dark cavity of the subfloor sat a thick, plastic waterproof box.
I pulled it out and flipped the latches.
Inside was a treasure trove of my own destruction.
There were medical files, bank statements, and legal documents. Right on top was a duplicate of the cream-colored folder I had seen on the security monitor. I opened it.
The first page was a legal petition for Involuntary Conservatorship and Intellectual Incapacity.
It was already filled out. My name was at the top. The petitioner was Eric Vance.
But it was the co-petitioner's name that made my blood run cold.
Dr. Evelyn Vance.
My breath hitched. I flipped to the next page. It was a psychological evaluation form, signed and stamped by Dr. Vance, detailing my "progressive, irreversible early-onset Alzheimer's, accompanied by severe paranoid delusions and violent tendencies."
It painted a picture of a woman who was a danger to herself and others. A woman who needed to be locked away in a private psychiatric facility immediately.
And then, I found the identity of the woman from the grocery store.
At the bottom of the box was a copy of Dr. Evelyn Vance’s passport and a marriage certificate from a small town in Nevada, dated fifteen years ago.
Evelyn Vance’s maiden name was Lydia Evelyn Vance.
She wasn't just my psychiatrist. She was Eric's wife.
They had been married before Eric and I even met. Their entire marriage was a legal sham, kept hidden, while Eric married me to gain access to my family's wealth. And now that the trust fund was about to release, they were preparing to execute the final phase of their plan.
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Suddenly, I heard the heavy creak of the stairs downstairs.
Eric was coming up.
