Chapter 3 - A Deadly Conversation
Through the thin gap in the velvet curtains, I watched my sister enter the room.
Marissa looked annoyed. Her face was tight, her movements hurried. She didn't look toward the window immediately. Instead, she walked straight to her vanity, grabbed a gift bag, and then stopped.
Her eyes drifted to the closet.
She walked over to the filing cabinet. She frowned, her hand reaching out to touch the electronic lock. I held my breath, my heart beating so loudly in my own ears that I was terrified she would hear it.
She pressed a button on the keypad. It beeped. Satisfied that it was still locked, she muttered, "Stupid lock. I swear I shut it all the way."
She turned and walked out of the room, her high heels clicking sharply down the hallway.
I let out a long, silent breath, my forehead leaning against the cold windowpane. I waited another five minutes, ensuring she and Leo had fully left the house again, before I slipped out from behind the curtain and retreated to my own bedroom.
I locked my door and sat on the edge of my bed, my mind racing.
I couldn't just go to the police. Marissa was smart. She had spent a year building a paper trail of my "instability." She had medical records from the immediate aftermath of the accident, documentation of my severe depression, and forged logs showing that I was unable to care for myself. To the outside world, she was the saintly, grieving sister who had sacrificed her own life to care for her disabled sibling.
If I walked into a police station now, claiming my sister was trying to steal my house and lock me away, Marissa would easily spin it as a paranoid delusion caused by my trauma. She would use my sudden claim of "regained hearing" as proof of my deteriorating mental state.
I needed undeniable, concrete proof of her intent. I needed her to incriminate herself.
The opportunity presented itself two days later, during a visit from my mother, Eleanor.
Eleanor had always been a distant, critical woman. After Nathan died, she had visited occasionally, but her visits always felt more like inspections than acts of maternal comfort. She, too, had fallen into the trap of speaking about me as if I weren't in the room.
The three of us were sitting in the living room. I was on the sofa with my sketchbook, pretending to be deeply engrossed in a drawing of the mountains. Marissa and my mother were sitting at the dining table, drinking tea.
"Have you finalized the arrangements for the Whispering Pines place?" Eleanor asked, her voice dry and matter-of-fact.
My processor picked up the clink of Marissa’s teacup hitting the saucer.
"Almost," Marissa replied. "The paperwork is done. I just need to get her to sign the final power of attorney documents. I told her they were just updated insurance forms. She trusts me blindly. She'll sign whatever I put in front of her."
"Are you sure this is the right thing, Marissa?" Eleanor sighed, though there was no real warmth or concern in her voice. "She's your sister. Selling her home... it feels so final."
"Mom, look at her," Marissa said, her tone dripping with mock pity. I could hear the sneer in her voice. "She sits there all day, staring into space, scribbling in those stupid notebooks. She’s a shell of a person. She’s dragging me down, she’s dragging Leo down. Nathan’s money is gone anyway—most of it went to her medical bills, and honestly, I deserve compensation for putting my life on hold for her for a year."
Compensation. My stomach churned. The "compensation" she spoke of was my husband's life insurance, which she had systematically stolen to fund her own lavish lifestyle, her expensive clothes, and her upcoming move.
"And what about the buyer for the house?" Eleanor asked.
"He's ready to close on the fifth," Marissa said, her voice rising with excitement. "He's paying cash, under the table for a portion of it to keep the taxes low. Once the sale goes through, I’ll drop Evie off at Whispering Pines for her 'evaluation.' By the time she realizes she’s not leaving, I’ll be halfway to California. She can't read lips well enough to explain what happened to the staff there, and even if she tries to write it down, they’ll just think it’s part of her cognitive delusion."
"You've thought of everything," Eleanor muttered. "I just hope you don't get caught."
"Caught by who?" Marissa laughed, a cold, mocking sound that chilled me to the bone. "The deaf girl? She doesn't have a clue, Mom. She’s completely in the dark. She lives in a world of absolute silence, and she’s going to stay there."
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I sat on the sofa, my hands steady on my sketchbook, but inside, a storm was raging.
I wasn't just going to stop her. I was going to destroy her.
