The trunk of the car was slightly ajar, and among the shopping bags, I saw the forgotten purse of my daughter, Donna. A flash of brown leather caught my attention like a magnet. In that instant, a chill ran down my spine, a presentiment so violent it made me tremble.
“Stop the car right now!” I yelled at my sister, Carol, who was driving calmly along the rural highway that was taking us back home.
Carol looked at me, alarmed, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“What is it, Betty? Are you feeling sick?”
“Stop the car,” I repeated, my voice sounding more hysterical than I intended.
At seventy-two, I had learned to trust my instincts. And in that moment, every fiber of my being screamed that something was terribly wrong.
My sister thought I was overreacting. I saw it in her eyes, in the way she sighed before starting to slow down. But she still decided to pull over onto the shoulder, that stretch of dirt and gravel alongside the asphalt.
That was the decision that saved our lives, because inside the purse was something that would change everything I thought I knew about my own family.
We had spent three days in the city, Carol and I, two older sisters taking advantage of a trip to handle banking matters, visit doctors, and enjoy those small urban luxuries we did not have back home. The return journey was always more relaxed than the trip there. Carol drove with the calm that comes from years of experience, humming old songs while the afternoon sun painted the landscape in golden tones.
We had been on the road for about an hour when I decided to get more comfortable. I stretched a little, turned my neck to relieve the tension, and it was then my eyes fell on the space between the back seats and the trunk.
The purse.
That object that shouldn’t be there, forgotten among our belongings, like a time bomb waiting to explode.
My heart started beating faster. Donna, my only daughter, had visited us the day before at the hotel. She had insisted on helping us organize the groceries in the trunk. I remembered her smile, her kisses on my cheeks, her affectionate words.
“Mom, drive carefully. You know this road can be dangerous at night.”
Why did that phrase now give me the chills?
“Carol,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “There’s a purse in the back. I think it’s Donna’s.”
My sister glanced quickly in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, yeah. She must have forgotten it yesterday. We’ll take it to her when we get there.”
“No. I need to see it now.”
Carol frowned, but something in my tone made her realize this was not a whim. She started looking for a safe place to stop, but I couldn’t wait. I unbuckled my seat belt and turned around, stretching my arm to reach the bag. My fingers barely brushed the brown leather. I stretched farther, feeling the pull in my back. At seventy-two, my body was no longer so flexible, but the adrenaline gave me extra strength.
“Betty, for heaven’s sake, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Carol sped up a little, desperately looking for a place to stop. Finally, my fingers managed to grab one of the handles of the purse. I yanked it toward me with a sudden movement. The purse fell onto my lap just as Carol found a safe spot on the shoulder and stepped on the brake.
The car stopped with a jolt. Carol turned to me with an expression of worry mixed with frustration.
“Are you going to explain what is going on?”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on the purse that was now resting in my lap. It was definitely Donna’s, brown with gold details, with her initials engraved:
D. E. M.
Donna Elaine Morales.
I had given it to her myself two years ago. But there was something strange. The purse was heavier than normal, too heavy to contain only the usual things.
With trembling hands, I opened the main zipper. Inside were the typical things: a small mirror, a lipstick, tissues. But underneath all that, wrapped in a silk scarf, was a cell phone.
It wasn’t the latest model iPhone that Donna always carried with her. This one was different. A basic, cheap phone, one of those that can be bought without needing to give personal information.
A burner phone.
The air seemed to leave my lungs.
Carol leaned over to get a better look, her expression changing from curiosity to confusion.
“What is that? Why would Donna have two phones?”
That was exactly the question that made my blood run cold.
I took the device in my hands. It was warm, as if it had been turned on recently. The moment I held it, it vibrated. A notification, then another, and one more. Someone was sending messages.
I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, showing notifications from WhatsApp. The phone did not have a password. No protection.
“Betty…” Carol’s voice sounded tense. “Maybe we shouldn’t…”
But I had already opened the messaging application. The last chat was with a contact simply saved as “M.” The messages were recent. Very recent.
M: “They already passed the point. Fifteen minutes ago. They must be close. Don’t write anymore.”
Donna: “Confirmed. Everything will go as we planned.”
My breathing became irregular. I scrolled up through the conversation, reading earlier messages. Each one was worse than the last.
M: “The mechanic confirmed the brake job. They will fail at mile marker 48.”
My hands started to tremble. The curve at mile marker 48, the most dangerous one on the entire highway, with a cliff on one side and enormous rocks on the other.
M: “Are you sure about doing this? It is your mother, Donna.”
Donna’s reply came minutes later.
Donna: “We do not have another option. The debts are $350,000. If we do not pay, Matthew and I will be dead. The inheritance solves everything. Mom has properties worth more than $2 million. Nobody will suspect an accident on that road.”
The phone dropped from my hands.
Carol quickly picked it up and started reading, her face transforming into a mask of horror.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. “Betty, this cannot be real.”
But I knew it was real. In that terrible moment, all the pieces clicked into place. Donna’s frequent visits in the last few weeks, her insistence that I give her power of attorney, her questions about my will, about the bank accounts, her nervousness when I told her I preferred to wait before signing documents.
“Keep reading,” I told Carol in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own.
My sister slid her finger across the screen. There were more messages, conversations dating back two months. There were photos, photographs of documents Donna had secretly taken: my will, bank statements, property deeds.
“Betty, we have to call the police.” Carol was already looking for her phone. “This is attempted murder.”
“No. Not yet.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? Your daughter is trying to kill you!”
She was right. But something inside me resisted. I needed to think. I needed to understand before acting.
I looked ahead. According to the odometer, we were at mile marker 35. The death curve was barely thirteen miles away. The silence inside the car was deafening. Carol was looking at me, waiting for an explanation, waiting for me to say something that made sense.
But how could I explain that my own daughter had planned my death with the coldness of someone organizing a vacation?
“I need to think,” I murmured, holding the burner phone in my hands as if it were a venomous snake. “I need to understand everything before I make any move.”
“Think?” Carol’s voice went up an octave. “Betty, there is nothing to think about. Donna and that wicked Matthew planned to kill us. They tampered with the car’s brakes. Any moment now, we could—”
“I know,” I interrupted her, my voice sounding strangely calm. “But if we call the police now, they will find out. And if they find out, they will find a way to escape or destroy evidence. We need to be smarter than them.”
My sister looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Maybe she was right. Maybe the shock of discovering my own daughter’s betrayal had broken something in my brain. But as I held that phone, as I reread those cold, calculating messages, something inside me was transforming.
The pain was there, of course, a deep, lacerating pain that tore at my chest. But on top of that pain, something else began to grow. Something cold, something sharp.
Rage.
Not the explosive rage that makes you yell and break things. No, this was different. It was ice-cold rage, clear and precise as a scalpel.
Donna had planned my death. My only daughter, the child I had carried in my womb, whom I had breastfed, whom I had raised alone after her father abandoned us—that same person had decided I was worth more dead than alive. $350,000 of debt, $2 million in property. The math was simple for her, apparently.
“Betty, please,” Carol had tears in her eyes. “We cannot stay in this car. If the brakes—”
“You’re right.” I made a quick decision. “We are going to test the brakes right now while we are still in a safe place.”
Carol nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She slowly started the car, moving forward just a few feet on the empty shoulder. Then she stepped on the brake. The car stopped normally. She tried again, this time harder. The vehicle responded well, stopping abruptly.
“It seems like they work,” Carol said, but her voice did not sound relieved.
“Maybe the plan was for them to fail gradually,” I said, remembering the message. “Maybe we haven’t reached the point where…”
“Mile marker 48,” I completed. “They designed this for the brakes to fail exactly on the most dangerous curve. We are thirteen miles before that. The mechanism is probably set to deteriorate progressively.”
The precision of the plan was terrifying. They did not want the car to fail just anywhere. They wanted to make sure that when the brakes stopped working, we were exactly in the worst possible place. A place where an accident would be fatal. A place where no one would question that two older women simply lost control of the vehicle.
I looked at the phone again. There was a message I had not read completely before.
Donna: “The mechanic says it is undetectable. He used a special liquid that corrodes the system gradually. By the time they reach the critical point, there will be no way to stop the car. And after the impact, the fire will take care of eliminating any evidence.”
One week ago.
The fire. Of course. They had thought of everything.
“Listen to me, Carol,” I turned to my sister, taking her hands. They were ice cold, shaking. “We are going to pretend we didn’t find anything. We are going to act as if everything is normal.”
“Normal?” Carol looked at me in disbelief. “How are we going to—”
“We are going to call Donna. We are going to tell her we found her purse. We are going to observe her reaction.”
“Betty, that is dangerous. If she suspects that you saw—”
“She is not going to suspect,” I said, my voice sounding firm, determined, “because we are going to be very careful. We are going to act exactly like two older women who found a forgotten purse and want to return it to its owner.”
Carol studied me for a long moment. I watched as she processed my words, how her expression went from fear to something close to understanding. My sister was five years younger than me, but she wasn’t foolish. She knew what I was proposing.
“You want to set a trap for them?” she finally said.
“I want justice,” I corrected. “And I want to make sure that when they fall, they fall so hard they can never get up.”
I took my own cell phone from my purse. Donna was in my favorites list with a smiling picture from two years ago. That photo now looked like the mask of a stranger. I pressed the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
“Mom.” Donna’s voice sounded normal, even affectionate. “Did you get home already? Everything’s fine on the road?”
Every word was a stab, because I knew that behind that sweet voice, my daughter was waiting for the news of my death.
“Hello, my love.” I forced my voice to sound calm, maternal. “We haven’t arrived yet. Actually, we stopped because we found your purse in the trunk. You forgot it yesterday when you helped us with the groceries.”
There was a silence—brief, but sufficient. A silence that screamed panic.
“My purse.” Donna’s voice had changed subtly. It no longer sounded so relaxed. “Oh, yeah. I hadn’t even noticed. It is not important, Mom. You can bring it to me when you arrive.”
“Well, it has your phone inside,” I said, watching every word, measuring the impact. “Your iPhone? I thought you would need it.”
Another pause. This time longer.
“My iPhone? No, Mom. I have my iPhone here with me. Maybe it is… maybe it is an old phone I left forgotten there a long time ago.”
She was lying. I could hear it in her voice, the barely contained nervousness. Carol noticed it too, her hand squeezing my arm.
“Oh, that could be it,” I replied in a casual tone. “Anyway, you will stop by to pick it up tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, yes, I will stop by tomorrow.” Donna was hurrying to end the conversation. “Mom, be careful on the road. That highway is dangerous, especially the big curve. Drive slowly, okay?”
The big curve. The one at mile marker 48. My own daughter was warning me about the exact place where she had planned my death. The irony was so dark it almost made me laugh.
“We will, my love. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I hung up. The last words hung in the air of the car like an invisible poison.
“I love you,” I repeated under my breath. “How can she say that when she is waiting for me to die?”
Carol did not answer. There was no answer to that question.
Immediately after hanging up, the burner phone in my hands started to vibrate. WhatsApp messages came in one after another. It was Donna writing to M, who was obviously Matthew, her husband.
Donna: “Damn it. They found the purse.”
Matthew: “What? How? How long ago?”
Donna: “She just called me. She said they found a phone inside.”
Matthew: “Did she check the phone?”
Donna: “I don’t know. She sounded normal, but what if she saw the messages?”
Matthew: “We are finished.”
Donna: “Matthew…”
Matthew: “Calm down. If she had seen something, she wouldn’t have called acting normal. She probably just saw the phone and thought it was yours. Old women like her do not even know how to use those devices right now.”
Old women like her.
Carol read that message over my shoulder and choked back an indignant gasp. I remained silent, but something inside me hardened even more. Matthew, the man who had entered my family ten years ago, the man I had welcomed like a son, called me an old woman while planning my murder.
Donna: “What do we do now?”
Matthew: “We stick with the plan. If she suspected anything, she would have turned around or called the police. The fact that they are still on the way means she doesn’t know anything. In less than one hour, everything will be over.”
In less than one hour, everything would be over.
I looked at the car clock. It was 4:37 in the afternoon. According to their calculations, by 5:30 I would be dead. Carol too—two victims of a tragic car accident on a rural highway known for being dangerous.
“We are not going to reach that curve,” I said suddenly. “We are going to do something different.”
“What do you mean?” Carol looked at me with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
“We are going to pretend something is wrong with the car. We are going to call a tow truck and have us towed, but we are not going home. We are going straight to a mechanic’s shop.”
Understanding lit up Carol’s face.
“So they document what was done to the car.”
“Exactly. We need physical evidence. The messages are important, but a professional mechanic’s report is irrefutable.”
Carol nodded slowly, wiping away the last of her tears. I could see how she was transforming too. The initial shock was giving way to something stronger.
We were in this together. Two sisters against the world—or more specifically, against my own daughter.
Carol started the engine again, but this time we did not move forward. Instead, she turned the wheel and started turning around, driving away from the direction we were heading. Away from mile marker 48. Away from the death my daughter had planned in such detail.
“There is a mechanic’s shop in the town we passed half an hour ago,” Carol said, her voice now firm and decisive. “The owner is Brandon. Do you remember him? He was a schoolmate of your late husband. He is trustworthy.”
I nodded, vaguely remembering a stocky man in his sixties who had always been kind to me the few times we had crossed paths. Trust. That word now had a completely different meaning for me. I had trusted Donna all my life. And look where that trust had led me.
The burner phone vibrated again. More messages between Donna and Matthew.
Donna: “What if we check the car ourselves to make sure everything is still in place?”
Matthew: “We cannot risk being seen near their house or on the highway. We already did our part visiting her yesterday. Any strange movement now would raise suspicion if something goes wrong.”
Donna: “You’re right. God, I am so nervous. I cannot stop thinking about it.”
Matthew: “Do not think. Just wait. In one hour, the police will call reporting the accident. We will act surprised, devastated. We will go to the scene. We will cry. We will do everything that is expected of a grieving relative.”
Donna: “What if they survive?”
My daughter’s question chilled my blood. There was no hope in those words. She was not asking with relief. She was asking with fear that her plan would fail.
Matthew: “They will not survive. The mechanic was very clear. At the speed the car will be going and with the weight of the vehicle, the fall will be at least 50 meters. No one survives that. And if by some miracle they do, the fire will take care of the rest.”
I closed my eyes, feeling nauseous. Carol noticed my paleness and reached out a hand to touch my arm.
“Do not read anymore, Betty. We have seen enough.”
But I needed to see. I needed to understand the extent of the betrayal. I kept scrolling down the messages, finding conversations from days earlier. There was a message from one week ago that caught my attention.
Donna: “I spoke with the lawyer. Once we have the death certificate, we can start the inheritance process. Since I am the only child and I have power of attorney over some accounts, access to the funds will be almost immediate, at least to $500,000.”
Matthew: “Perfect. With that, we pay the loan sharks and we have enough left over to disappear for a while. When we return, we will inherit the rest and no one will suspect anything.”
Donna: “You think it will work?”
Matthew: “It already worked before.”
I froze, staring at that last line.
It already worked before.
What did that mean? Had they done this before? Had Matthew killed someone else?
“Betty, that man is a murderer,” Carol gasped, reading over my shoulder.
I kept looking, my fingers trembling as I slid the screen. I found the conversation that explained everything. It was from three months ago.
Matthew: “My mother died exactly the way I planned for yours to die. Car accident. No one suspected anything. I inherited everything. That is how I got the money for our wedding.”
Donna: “You killed your own mother?”
Matthew: “I did what was necessary. She was old, sick. She was going to die anyway in a few years. I just accelerated the inevitable and secured our future. Now we will do the same with Betty. Think about it. Your mother is seventy-two years old. How many more years do you think she will live? Five? Ten? Is it worth waiting and risking losing everything because of our debts?”
Donna: “I do not know. She is my mother.”
Matthew: “She is an obstacle, nothing more. Love does not pay debts of $350,000. Love does not stop the loan sharks from breaking our legs. Or worse. Your mother is our only way out, Donna.”
Donna: “Okay. We will do it.”
Okay. We will do it.
Two words that sealed my death sentence. My daughter had chosen. Between her mother and the money, she had chosen the money. Between my life and her comfortable life, she had chosen hers.
The car stopped abruptly, and I realized we had arrived at the mechanic’s shop. It was a modest building with a large open gate where several vehicles in different states of repair could be seen. A hand-painted sign read:
“Bran’s Auto – Trusted Repairs Since 1985.”
A man in grease-stained overalls came out when he heard the engine. It was Brandon, now with more gray hair than I remembered, but with the same kind expression on his face.
“Carol? Betty?” His smile faded when he saw our faces. “What happened? Are you two all right?”
Carol got out of the car first, approaching him. I got out more slowly, still holding the burner phone in my hand. My mind worked quickly, calculating what to say, how to explain without revealing too much yet.
“Brandon, we need your help,” I said, my voice sounding calmer than I felt. “We need you to check the brakes on this car right now, and we need you to document everything you find.”
The mechanic frowned, looking at the vehicle.
“Are you having brake problems? Did you feel anything strange while driving?”
“Not exactly,” Carol intervened. “But we have reason to believe that someone may have tampered with the braking system.”
Brandon looked at us with an expression that mixed surprise and concern. It was not a common request. People did not show up at a shop asking for sabotage to be documented.
“That is very serious,” he said slowly. “If someone altered the brakes of a vehicle, we are talking about attempted homicide. You should call the police.”
“We will,” I assured him. “But first, we need solid evidence. Can you help us?”
Brandon studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded.
“Sure. Give me a few minutes. I’m going to put the car on the lift and check it completely. If there is anything out of place, I’ll find it.”
While he was preparing, Carol and I sat in a small waiting room with plastic chairs and old magazines. The smell of motor oil and gasoline filled the air. Normally it would have bothered me, but now I barely noticed it. My mind was elsewhere, processing everything I had discovered.
Donna had not only planned my death, she had married a man who had killed his own mother. How had I not realized? How had I been so blind?
I remembered the wedding ten years ago. Donna, radiant in her white dress. Matthew, handsome and charming, telling me how his mother had tragically died in a car accident just before they met. He had cried telling me that story.
Fake tears.
Now I knew—crocodile tears, while he was probably internally celebrating his perfect crime. And I had believed him. I had opened my home, my family, my heart to him.
The burner phone vibrated again. This time it was an incoming call. The name on the screen said “M.”
Matthew was calling.
I looked at Carol, who violently shook her head.
“We shouldn’t answer.”
But a part of me wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to confirm that the monster from the messages was real. I let it ring until it went to voicemail. Seconds later, an audio message arrived. With trembling hands, I pressed play.
“Donna, damn it. Answer the phone.” Matthew’s voice sounded tense, anxious. “I need to know if your mother checked that phone. If she saw the messages, everything goes to hell. Call me as soon as you hear this.”
I put the phone in my purse just as Brandon entered the waiting room. His expression was grave, and in his hands he carried a container with dark liquid.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice heavy with seriousness. “You have to see this.”
He guided us to the shop where the car was lifted. He pointed to the brake system, specifically to the lines that transported the fluid.
“Look here. Someone injected a corrosive compound into the brake fluid. It’s something I’ve only seen once before in a fraudulent insurance case. This chemical progressively degrades the internal lines. The brakes work normally at first, but after a certain distance or certain use, the lines weaken until they break completely.”
“How far would we have gotten before they failed?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
Brandon did some mental calculations, looking at the car’s odometer.
“With the amount of chemical they used and considering the weight of the vehicle, I’d say between ten and fifteen miles more. After that, the brakes would have stopped working completely without any warning.”
Ten to fifteen miles. We would have arrived exactly at mile marker 48. The death curve.
The plan was perfect. Diabolically perfect.
“Can you document all this?” Carol had taken out her phone and was taking pictures. “We need proof.”
“I’m already doing it.” Brandon had brought a camera and was photographing every angle of the brake system. “I’m also going to take samples of the contaminated liquid for analysis. This is evidence of a crime. Ladies, you have to call the police now.”
He was right. We already had enough: the messages on the phone, the sabotaged car, the mechanic’s documentation. It was time to make the call.
But before I could take out my phone, Donna’s device vibrated again. This time it was a different message from a number that was not saved in the contacts.
Unknown number: “The payment is ready. $15,000 as we agreed. Transferred as soon as you confirm the job.”
The corrupt mechanic. The man who had accepted money to become an accomplice to murder.
And suddenly I had an idea.
“We are not going to call the police yet,” I said, surprising both Carol and Brandon.
My sister looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Betty, we already have everything. The messages, the sabotaged car, the physical evidence. What more do you need?”
“I need Donna and Matthew to believe that their plan worked.” The words came out of my mouth with a clarity that surprised even me. “I need them to think they won, that I am dead. Only then will they completely let down their guard.”
Brandon scratched his head, confused.
“I don’t understand. Why would you want to do that?”
I sat down in a nearby chair, organizing my thoughts. The cold rage I had felt before was transforming into something more calculated, more dangerous. Donna had planned every detail of my death. It was time for me to plan every detail of her downfall.
“Because if we call the police now, they will get a good lawyer,” I said. “They will say the messages are fake, that someone else has access to that phone. Matthew is smart. He has done this before. He will find a way to plant reasonable doubt.”
Carol sat next to me, taking my hand.
“What are you thinking, sister?”
“I am thinking that we need more than evidence. We need a confession. We need them to incriminate themselves, to say out loud what they did, thinking no one is listening.”
“That is risky,” Brandon warned, “and possibly illegal.”
“I know. But Donna taught me something today.” I looked at the burner phone resting in my lap. “She taught me that sometimes, to survive, you have to be as ruthless as your enemy.”
The plan began to form in my mind. It was risky, yes, but it was also the only way to ensure that Donna and Matthew paid for everything. Not just for trying to kill me, but for the murder of Matthew’s mother. For all the lies, all the manipulation.
“I am going back home,” I announced, “but not in this car. Brandon, do you have a vehicle you can lend us?”
The mechanic nodded slowly.
“I have an old pickup truck. It is not fancy, but it runs well.”
“Perfect. Carol and I will go home in that pickup. This car will stay here as evidence. I need you to keep it in a safe place and not tell anyone we were here.”
“And what will you tell Donna when you arrive?” Carol still looked skeptical.
“I will tell her we had mechanical problems on the way and that a good Samaritan helped us. I will return her purse, her phone. I will act like the trusting, loving mother she expects. And in the meantime, I am going to prepare my own plan.”
Brandon lent us his pickup truck, an old but reliable Ford. Before leaving, I made sure he understood the importance of keeping the car hidden and not mentioning our visit to anyone. I explained enough for him to understand the seriousness of the situation, but not all the details. The fewer people who knew, the better.
The road back home was tense. Carol drove the pickup while I looked out the window, watching the familiar landscape pass with new eyes. Everything looked different now. The world was darker, more dangerous. I could no longer trust my own daughter.
“Do you really think we can do this?” Carol broke the silence after twenty minutes on the road.
“We have to do it. Not just for us—for Matthew’s mother, too. She deserves justice even if she is not here to see it.”
My sister nodded, but I could see the worry in her eyes. She was scared. I was too. But fear no longer paralyzed me. It gave me strength.
When we arrived at my house, the sun was already setting, painting the sky in oranges and reds. The house looked quiet, peaceful. No one would have imagined that its owner had just discovered that her daughter planned to murder her.
We entered through the front door. Everything was exactly as I had left it three days ago: the plants that needed water, the mail piling up on the entrance table. The absolute normalcy of a life that no longer existed.
“I am going to take a bath,” I announced, leaving my luggage in the hallway. “I need to think.”
Carol nodded, understanding that I needed a moment alone.
As the hot water fell over me, I allowed the tears to finally flow. I had maintained my composure all this time. But now, in the privacy of my bathroom, I allowed myself to feel the full pain of the betrayal.
Donna. My baby. The girl I had rocked to sleep, whom I had nursed when she was sick, whom I had defended from all evil. That same girl now wished for my death. Where had I gone wrong? What had I done wrong as a mother?
But then I remembered the messages, the coldness with which Donna had accepted Matthew’s plan, the ease with which she had chosen money over my life. And I realized that maybe it had not been my fault. Maybe some people were simply born with something broken inside them. Or maybe Matthew had slowly poisoned her over these ten years of marriage.
I got out of the bath feeling stronger, more determined. I put on comfortable clothes and went down to the kitchen where Carol was preparing tea.
“Donna called,” my sister said without looking at me. “She asked if you had arrived safely. I told her yes, that you had a small problem with the car, but that a kind gentleman helped you. She sounded relieved.”
Relieved that her plan had failed. Or maybe relieved that I had not discovered the truth yet.
“Good. Now I need to make a call.”
I took out my personal phone, not Donna’s burner. I looked for a name in my contacts: Catherine Harris, my lawyer and friend for thirty years. Catherine answered on the second ring.
“Betty, what a surprise. How was the trip to the city?”
“Catherine, I need to see you first thing tomorrow morning. It is urgent and extremely confidential.”
There was a pause. Catherine knew me well enough to detect the seriousness in my voice.
“Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“I cannot talk on the phone, but I need your help with something legal, something that could change my will and several other important documents.”
“I will be in my office at eight in the morning. Does that work for you?”
“Perfect. Thank you, Catherine.”
I hung up and looked at Carol.
“Tomorrow we start building our trap. But tonight, I am going to visit my daughter.”
“What?” Carol almost dropped her teacup. “Betty, that is dangerous. If she suspects that—”
“She will not suspect anything because I am going to give her exactly what she expects: a loving and completely ignorant mother.”
I picked up Donna’s purse, which I had carefully put away.
“I am going to return her purse personally, and I am going to observe every detail of her reaction.”
The drive to Donna’s house took fifteen minutes. She lived in a nice middle-class neighborhood in a two-story house that I had helped pay for five years ago. Now that thought made my stomach churn. I had invested so much in her happiness, and this was how she repaid me.
Matthew’s car was in the driveway. Perfect. I wanted to see them both.
I rang the doorbell, holding the purse with steady hands. I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, revealing Donna. She looked tense, with pronounced dark circles under her eyes. She had been crying.
“Mom,” her voice trembled. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to return your purse, my love.” I held out the object with a maternal smile. “I did not want you to worry about it.”
Donna took the purse with trembling hands. Her eyes moved quickly, searching for the burner phone. She found it exactly where I had left it, wrapped in the silk scarf.
“Thank you, Mom. You didn’t have to bother coming all this way.”
“It is no bother. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were okay. You sounded a little strange on the phone.”
“Strange?” Donna laughed nervously. “No, not at all. I was just busy with some things.”
Matthew appeared behind her, his expression carefully neutral.
“Betty, what a surprise. Come in, please.”
I entered the house that I knew so well. Everything looked normal: family photographs on the walls, comfortable furniture, the perfect appearance of a happy home. But now I knew the truth hidden behind that façade.
“Would you like something to drink, Mom?” Donna was putting the purse away in a nearby closet, her body blocking my view, probably checking the phone discreetly.
“No, thank you. I just wanted to drop this off and go back home. It has been a long day.”
“How was the trip?” Matthew had sat on the sofa, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. “Donna mentioned you had car trouble.”
“Oh, that.” I waved my hand carelessly. “A strange noise in the engine, nothing more. A very kind gentleman helped us, and we were able to continue without problems.”
I saw the exchange of glances between Donna and Matthew, a silent communication. They were wondering why the plan had failed, why I was there alive instead of dead at the bottom of a cliff.
“I am glad you are okay,” Donna said, returning from putting the purse away. She looked more relaxed now, probably after confirming that the phone had not been checked. “That highway can be very dangerous.”
“It is,” I agreed, looking her straight in the eyes, “especially on the big curve at mile marker 48.”
Right on cue, Donna paled slightly.
“Yes, that curve is particularly bad.”
I stood up, smoothing my skirt.
“Well, I will let you rest. I just wanted to make sure to return your purse, my love.”
Donna walked me to the door. Before leaving, I hugged her. I felt her tense up in my arms, uncomfortable. I wondered if she had ever felt genuine love for me or if it had always been just an act.
“I love you, Donna,” I whispered in her ear.
“I love you too, Mom.”
Lies. It was all lies.
I returned home with a heavy heart but a clear mind. The game had begun. Donna and Matthew thought they had dodged a bullet. They thought their secret was safe. They had no idea of the storm that was about to break over them.
At eight in the morning precisely, I was sitting across from Catherine Harris’s desk. My lawyer watched me with a mixture of concern and curiosity as I explained everything: the messages on the burner phone, the sabotaged car, Donna and Matthew’s plan to murder me.
Catherine listened in silence, her professional expression hiding the shock she must have been feeling. When I finished, she leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly.
“Betty, this is… I am speechless. Donna is your only daughter. I never imagined she was capable of something like this.”
“Me neither.” My voice sounded firmer than I felt. “That is why I need your help. I need to protect my assets and at the same time set a trap that forces them to confess.”
Catherine leaned forward, her fingers intertwined on the desk.
“Tell me exactly what you have in mind.”
Over the next hour, we elaborated a meticulous plan. First, Catherine would draft a new will that would completely remove Donna as an heir. Everything would pass to a charitable foundation we would create specifically for this purpose. Second, we would revoke any power of attorney Donna might have over my accounts or properties.
“But we are not going to register these changes immediately,” I explained. “We are going to date them for today, but we will keep them locked up in your safe. If something happens to me, they automatically go into effect.”
“That is smart,” Catherine admitted. “But there is something else you need to do. You need to transfer your liquid assets to new accounts that Donna does not know about. If she has access to your banking information, as you mentioned she does, she might try to drain those accounts before we can act.”
She was right. Over the next two hours, with Catherine’s help, I opened new bank accounts and transferred my savings. It was $800,000 in total, accumulated over a lifetime of work and sacrifice. Money that Donna had taken for granted would be hers.
“Now comes the tricky part,” Catherine said, printing the documents for me to sign. “You said you want them to confess. How do you plan to achieve that?”
“Donna believes I am a silly old woman who does not know how to use technology.” A cold smile appeared on my face. “I am going to use that belief against them. I am going to invite them to dinner at my house, and I am going to record the entire conversation.”
Catherine frowned.
“Recordings without consent may not be admissible in court depending on the circumstances.”
“Then we will make sure the circumstances are the right ones. Besides, I do not need it to be admissible in court. I just need it to exist. Once I have the recorded confession, I can use it as leverage to obtain a formal confession.”
My lawyer studied me for a long moment.
“You have become very calculating, Betty.”
“Donna taught me well.” My voice sounded bitter. “She taught me that in this world, you are either the predator or you are the prey.”
Before leaving Catherine’s office, I made one last request.
“I need you to investigate Matthew Morales. Specifically, I need information about his mother’s death. You said you have contacts in the police. Use those contacts.”
Catherine wrote down the name.
“Do you really think he killed his mother?”
“I am sure of it. And if I can prove it, he will not just fall for trying to kill me. He will fall for two murders.”
I left the office feeling more in control of the situation. The pieces were falling into place. Donna and Matthew still thought they were in control, but I was cutting off their access to everything they wanted.
When I arrived home, I found Carol in the kitchen preparing lunch. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes that revealed she had slept little.
“How did it go with Catherine?” she asked, pouring coffee.
“Good. Very good. All my assets are protected now. Donna will not be able to touch anything, even if something happened to me.”
Carol nodded, but did not look relieved.
“Betty, I have been thinking all night. Are you sure you want to go through with this? We can still go to the police with what we have.”
I sat across from her, taking her hand.
“Donna and Matthew are smart. They will get good lawyers. They will say someone else planted that phone, that the messages are fake. Matthew has already gotten away with murder once before. I cannot risk him escaping again.”
“But the car, the mechanic, he documented everything.”
“And they will say it was some enemy, someone who wanted to harm them. They will plant reasonable doubt. But if I have them confessing on tape, admitting their crimes in their own voices…”
I left the sentence unfinished.
Carol sighed deeply.
“When will you have the dinner?”
“This weekend. I will tell them I want to celebrate that we arrived safely from the trip. It will be ironic, don’t you think?”
My sister did not smile at my attempt at black humor.
“This could be dangerous if they suspect anything.”
“They will not suspect, because I am going to continue being the trusting, loving mother. The silly old woman who does not know anything.”
The rest of the week passed in a kind of surreal normalcy. Donna called me twice, asking how I was, if I had taken the car to be checked after the mechanical problem. Every conversation was a play where both of us acted roles—her, the worried daughter; me, the mother grateful for her attention.
Meanwhile, Catherine worked in the background. She called me on Wednesday with news.
“Betty, I found something about Matthew’s mother. She died eleven years ago in a car accident. The official report says she lost control on a curve. But there was one investigator who thought something was not right. The car’s brakes were completely destroyed, too destroyed for a simple accident. They investigated further…”
She sighed.
“No charges were ever brought. But Matthew quickly inherited, sold his mother’s properties, and moved to another city. This town, in fact. One year later, he met Donna.”
It all fit. Matthew had perfected his method with his own mother, and now he was repeating it with me.
On Friday night, I called Donna.
“Hello, my love. I want to invite you and Matthew for dinner tomorrow. I want to cook your favorite dish, the one you loved so much when you were a little girl.”
There was a brief pause.
“Tomorrow? Let me check with Matthew… Yes, Mom. We will be there.”
“What time?”
“At seven. And Donna, bring your appetite. It is going to be a special night.”
She had no idea how special it would be. For her, it would be the night everything fell apart. The night she would discover that her mother was not as silly as she thought, the night the prey would become the hunter.
Saturday passed in a kind of tense calm. Carol and I spent the day preparing the house for dinner. I cooked Donna’s favorite dish, that chicken stew with spices that she had loved since she was a little girl. Every time I had prepared it before, I did it with love. Today I did it with a completely different purpose.
While the meat cooked slowly, I prepared the other crucial element of the night. Catherine had gotten me a small recording device, discreet and effective. I placed it strategically under the dining room table, hidden among the decorative ornaments. I also activated the recorder on my cell phone, which I would casually leave on the table.
“Are you sure about this?” Carol asked me for the tenth time that day. She was nervous, twisting a dish towel in her hands.
“Completely sure.”
I tasted the stew, adjusting the salt.
“Tonight, Donna and Matthew are going to show their true colors. I just need to push them in the right direction.”
At seven o’clock precisely, I heard Matthew’s car park in front of the house. My heart started beating faster, but I kept my expression serene. Carol positioned herself in the kitchen, ready to serve when necessary. I opened the door with a big smile.
Donna was beautiful as always, in an elegant dress and perfectly applied makeup. Matthew, beside her, was dressed casually but neatly, the perfect image of a successful couple.
“My darlings, come in, come in.”
I hugged them both, feeling the tension in their bodies. Donna kissed my cheek, her lips cold against my skin.
“It smells delicious, Mom,” she said, entering the house. “Is it your special stew?”
“Of course. I know how much you like it.”
Matthew handed me a bottle of wine.
“To go with dinner, Betty.”
“What a thoughtful gift. Thank you.”
I took the bottle, noticing the expensive label—probably bought with the money they thought they would inherit soon.
We sat in the living room while Carol served appetizers. The conversation was superficial at first. The weather, the news, trivial comments about nothing important. But I could feel the tension beneath the surface. Donna was watching me too closely, as if looking for signs that something was wrong.
“How is the car, Mom?” Matthew finally asked, his tone casual but his eyes alert. “Donna mentioned you had trouble on the road.”
“Oh, that.” I waved my hand carelessly. “A strange noise. Nothing more. I have not had time to take it to the mechanic yet.”
I saw the exchange of glances between them. Confusion. Concern. They were wondering why the car had not failed as they planned.
“You should have it checked soon,” Donna insisted. “Old cars can be unpredictable.”
“You are right, my love. I will do it next week.”
Carol announced that dinner was ready. We moved to the dining room where I had set the table with my best china. My cell phone rested innocently near my plate, its recorder active. The device under the table waited silently.
While serving the stew, I decided to start planting the seeds of my plan.
“You know, I have been thinking a lot this week about the future,” I said casually. “At seventy-two years old, you cannot help but think about these things.”
“Mom, do not talk like that,” Donna tensed immediately. “You have many years ahead of you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I took a sip of wine. “Anyway, this week I went to see Catherine. We made some adjustments to my legal documents.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Matthew stopped eating, his fork suspended in the air. Donna looked at me with wide eyes.
“What kind of adjustments?” Donna’s voice sounded forcedly casual.
“Oh, nothing dramatic. I just wanted to make sure everything was in order. The properties, the bank accounts, the will.” I smiled sweetly. “You never know when you are going to need these things, right?”
“You changed your will,” Matthew leaned forward, momentarily forgetting his act as the disinterested son-in-law.
“I made some modifications, yes. Catherine advised me on certain legal protections.” I looked directly at Donna. “Especially considering you have been so interested in my finances lately.”
Donna paled.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, all your questions about the deeds, the powers of attorney, the bank statements…” I kept my tone light, almost amused. “A mother notices these things.”
The atmosphere at the table changed drastically. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Carol, from her position in the kitchen, watched me with concern.
“I was just worried about you, Mom,” Donna said defensively. “I want to make sure you are protected.”
“Protected from what exactly?” I let the question hang in the air. “Or protected from whom?”
Matthew intervened, his voice controlled but tense.
“Betty, I think you are misunderstanding Donna’s intentions. She just wants the best for you.”
“The best for me,” I repeated, setting my fork down on the plate. “Tell me, Matthew, does the best for me include a car ride with sabotaged brakes?”
The silence that followed was absolute. Donna had stopped breathing. Matthew had become completely motionless, his face a mask of shock.
“What… what are you saying?” Donna finally found her voice, but it sounded high-pitched, hysterical.
“I am saying that I know everything.” I leaned back in my chair, watching them calmly. “I know about the burner phone. I know about the messages between you and Matthew. I know about the plan to kill me on the curve at mile marker 48.”
Donna stood up abruptly, her chair falling backward with a crash.
“That is ridiculous. What are you talking about?”
“Sit down, Donna.” My voice was cold as ice. “And stop acting. I found your purse in the car. I found the phone. I read every message, every detailed plan of how to murder me to collect the inheritance.”
Matthew had also stood up, his face red with anger.
“This is crazy. I do not know what phone you are talking about. Someone is lying to you, manipulating you against your own daughter.”
“Oh, really?” I took the burner phone out of my pocket and placed it on the table. “Then this is not yours, Donna? And these messages about the $350,000 of debt, about hiring a mechanic to tamper with the brakes of my car?”
Donna looked at the phone as if it were a venomous snake. Her lips trembled, searching for words that did not come.
“You…” Matthew started approaching me menacingly. “You do not have the right to check private things.”
“I have every right when those private things include plans to murder me.” I stood up, facing him. Despite my seventy-two years, I was not going to let myself be intimidated. “And it is not just me, is it, Matthew? You also killed your mother. The same method, the same plan. You thought no one would find out.”
Matthew’s face completely transformed. The mask of the charming son-in-law disappeared, revealing something dark and dangerous underneath.
“You do not have proof of anything,” he spat the words. “That phone could be anyone’s. The messages could be fake.”
“But they are not.” My voice remained firm. “And I have more than the phone. I have the car. I took it to a trusted mechanic. He documented everything: the corrosive chemical in the brake system, the exact plan for them to fail at mile marker 48.”
Donna began to cry, great sobs that shook her body.
“Mom, please, you have to understand. We were desperate. The loan sharks were going to kill us if we did not pay. We did not have a choice.”
“You did not have a choice?” The rage finally filtered into my voice. “Your only choice was to murder your own mother? Do you know how many times I helped you when you had money problems? How many times I paid your debts, your whims? And this is how you repay me?”
“You do not understand!” Donna screamed. “This time it was different. It was too much money. And you have so much, Mom. Two million dollars in property. Why do we have to wait until you die naturally?”
There it was, the confession I needed, perfectly recorded on two different devices. Donna’s words hung in the air like poison. Carol had come out of the kitchen, watching the scene with horror.
Matthew had realized too late what Donna had just admitted.
“Shut up!” he hissed at Donna, grabbing her arm. “Do not say anything else.”
But the damage was done. Donna collapsed into her chair, crying uncontrollably. The whole façade of the worried daughter had crumbled, revealing the greed and desperation underneath.
“Too late for silence,” I said, my voice heavy with a calmness I did not feel. “You already confessed, and every word was recorded.”
Matthew turned to me, his eyes narrowed.
“Recorded?”
I pointed to my cell phone on the table.
“Modern technology, Matthew. Even us old women know how to use it when necessary.”
His face twisted into a grimace of fury. In two quick steps, he reached the phone and smashed it against the floor. The screen shattered, fragments of glass scattered everywhere.
“There is your recording,” he growled.
I smiled. It was exactly the reaction I had anticipated.
“That was just one. There is another device in this room and copies at the lawyer’s office. Destroying one phone does not erase the truth.”
Matthew stood frozen, processing my words. Donna looked up, her eyes red and swollen.
“Mom, please, we can fix this. It does not have to go to the authorities.”
“Fix it?” I repeated with disbelief. “How exactly do you propose to fix an attempted murder? With an apology? With empty promises? With money?”
Matthew intervened, his calculating mind already looking for a way out.
“We will pay you the $350,000 we owe, plus interest. Just… just do not go to the police.”
“With what money?” I asked coldly. “With the money you thought you would inherit after killing me? I am sorry to disappoint you, but I already transferred all my liquid assets to new accounts. Accounts that you do not know about and never will.”
Donna gasped.
“What? You cannot. That is my inheritance.”
“It was your inheritance,” I corrected her. “Before you decided you preferred to have it now and me dead. Now you will have nothing. Not one cent. I will donate it all before I leave you anything.”
“You cannot do that.” Donna stood up again, her sadness transforming into rage. “I am your daughter, your only daughter. That money belongs to me by right.”
“You do not have any right over my money while I am alive. And thanks to discovering your plan, I am going to be alive for many more years.”
I approached her, looking her straight in the eyes.
“Do you know what is the saddest thing about all this, Donna? That if you had come to me, if you had told me about your debts, about your problems, I would have helped you like I always did.”
“You would not have given $350,000,” she murmured.
“Maybe not the whole sum at once, but we would have found a solution. We would have talked to the loan sharks, set up a payment plan. We would have solved it together as a family.” My voice cracked slightly. “But instead, you chose to kill me.”
Matthew began to pace back and forth like a caged animal.
“This is your fault,” he hissed at Donna. “I told you to check the purse before leaving the hotel. I told you to make sure not to leave anything compromising.”
“Now you blame me?” Donna yelled back. “You were the one who proposed all this. You were the one who said it was the only way because you would not stop crying about the debts, because you wanted to maintain this lifestyle we cannot afford.”
I watched them fight, blaming each other, revealing the cracks in their relationship. Carol approached me, taking my hand in a gesture of silent support.
“Enough,” I finally said, my voice cutting through their argument. “Your marital problems do not interest me. What interests me is justice for me and for Matthew’s mother.”
Matthew froze.
“What did you say?”
“Your mother. The one you also killed eleven years ago using exactly the same method. Sabotaged brakes, dangerous curve, convenient death.”
I took out a folder I had prepared with Catherine.
“I have the accident report. I have the notes of the investigator who suspected but could never prove anything. And now I have the pattern. Two older women, two identical accidents, two quick inheritances.”
Matthew’s face lost all color. Donna looked at him with growing horror.
“Matthew, is it true? You killed your mother?”
“He told you,” I answered for him. “It is in the phone messages. He told you he had already done it before, that it worked perfectly, and you agreed anyway. You knew you had married a murderer, and yet you decided to help him kill your own mother.”
Donna put her hands to her mouth, nausea evident in her expression. But I did not know if it was because of Matthew’s crime or because of being caught.
“This is over,” Matthew suddenly declared. His voice had changed, becoming cold and calculating again. “You do not have real proof about my mother. That case was closed years ago. And about the car, we will hire experts to show that the damage could have been accidental or caused by third parties. And Donna’s recorded confession—she was under emotional pressure. Any lawyer will dismiss it as unreliable. We will say you manipulated her, that you confused her. You are an old woman, Betty. The lawyers will argue that you are senile, paranoid, inventing conspiracy theories about your own family.”
“Try it,” I said without backing down. “And in the meantime, explain to the judge why your wife had a burner phone with detailed conversations about my murder. Explain why a mechanic documented corrosive chemicals in my brake system. Explain the coincidences with your mother’s death.”
“It is not enough,” Matthew insisted, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice now.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But it will be enough to ruin your lives, even if you do not go to prison. And believe me, I will do everything possible to make sure you do go. Both of your reputations will be destroyed. No one will want anything to do with you. No bank will lend you money. No employer will hire you. And those loan sharks you fear so much—do you think they will give you more time when they find out that all hope of payment has vanished?”
I saw the real fear appear in Donna’s eyes. The loan sharks. She had momentarily forgotten the original reason for all this, the debt that had pushed them to desperation.
“Mom, please.” Donna knelt in front of me, her hands grabbing my skirt. “Please, there has to be another way. If we go to prison, the loan sharks will come after us anyway. We will be dead in one month.”
“You should have thought about that before accumulating those debts. Before choosing murder as a solution.” My voice was still. “I am not going to save you, Donna. Not this time.”
“You are my mother,” she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Mothers are supposed to protect their children always.”
“And daughters are supposed not to plan to murder their mothers,” I replied. “But here we are.”
Carol touched my shoulder gently.
“Betty, maybe we should call the police now.”
She was right. I had obtained what I needed: the confession, the evidence, everything documented. It was time to end this.
But before I could reach for my backup phone, Matthew moved quick as a snake. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen sideboard. The blade shone under the dining room light as he pointed it at me.
“No one is calling anyone,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “We are all going to sit down, and we are going to find a civilized solution to this.”
Carol gasped. Donna stood up, looking at her husband with horror.
“Matthew, what are you doing?”
“What I should have done from the beginning,” he replied without taking his eyes off me. “Take control of the situation.”
I looked at the knife, then at Matthew, and to his surprise, I smiled.
“Go ahead,” I said calmly. “Threaten me with a weapon. Better yet, use it. Just make sure the security cameras catch every second.”
Matthew blinked, confusion crossing his face.
“What cameras?”
I pointed to the corners of the dining room.
“I installed them this morning. Four cameras, all recording in high definition, all streaming live to a cloud server.”
I lied partially. There was only one camera, but he did not know it.
“So, please continue. This will only make the case against you easier.”
The knife trembled in Matthew’s hand. His eyes moved frantically, searching for the cameras I had mentioned. He found one discreetly mounted in the upper corner of the dining room. His face crumbled as he realized that every movement, every threatening word had been captured.
“This is a trap,” he whispered, the knife slowly falling. “This whole thing was a trap from the beginning.”
“Of course it was,” I confirmed. “Did you think I was going to let you escape after planning my death? Did you think I was going to be the silent and convenient victim you expected?”
Donna looked between Matthew and me, her face a mask of absolute despair.
“Mom, please, we can leave. We can disappear. You will never see us again. Just… just let us go.”
“So you can do this to someone else?” Carol spoke for the first time in minutes, her voice firm. “So Matthew can find another woman with a rich mother and repeat the same plan? No, Donna, this ends here.”
Matthew dropped the knife completely, the metal clanging against the wooden floor. He let himself fall into a chair, his head in his hands.
“We are finished,” he murmured. “Completely finished.”
“Finally, you understand,” I said.
I reached for my backup cell phone, the one I had kept in my pocket throughout dinner.
“Now, I am going to call the police. And you are going to stay exactly where you are.”
“Wait.” Donna approached, but Carol stood between us.
“Mom, wait. If you are really going to do this, at least I need to know one thing. Is there any way you can forgive me someday? Any chance of us being mother and daughter again?”
I looked at the woman in front of me—the girl I had carried in my womb, whom I had raised alone after her father abandoned us, the girl to whom I had given everything, sacrificed everything. And now the woman who had planned my death with the coldness of someone planning a shopping trip.
“I do not know, Donna,” I answered honestly. “Right now, looking at you, I do not see my daughter. I see a stranger. A stranger who chose $350,000 over her mother’s life.”
“It was not just for the money,” Donna sobbed. “The loan sharks said they would do horrible things, that they would find us no matter where we went. Matthew said it was the only way to be safe.”
“Matthew lied, as he has lied about everything since he entered our lives. And you chose to believe him instead of trusting me. That was your real choice, Donna. Not between the money and me, between him and me. And you chose wrong.”
I dialed the emergency number. Before they answered, Donna made one last desperate attempt.
“The loan sharks will kill us. Do you understand that? If we go to prison, we will be defenseless. They have contacts everywhere. They will find us, and they will make us pay in the most horrible way possible.”
“Then maybe you should have thought about that before getting into debt with criminals,” I replied without emotion. “Or better yet, before thinking that murder was an acceptable solution.”
The operator answered.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“My name is Betty Espinosa. I need to report an attempted murder. The people responsible are here in my house right now.”
I gave my address in a clear, firm voice.
“Are you in immediate danger, ma’am?” the operator asked.
I looked at Matthew, defeated in his chair, and Donna, crying on the floor.
“No. I am not in danger anymore.”
The police arrived in fifteen minutes. Two patrol cars, four officers. One of them, an older man named Officer Miller, knew me from years ago. His expression became increasingly grim as I explained the situation, showing him the burner phone, the recordings, the mechanic’s documentation.
“This is very serious, Betty,” Officer Miller said after reviewing the evidence. “We are going to need you to come to the station to make a formal statement, and we will need that car as evidence.”
“It is at Brandon’s shop.” I provided the address. “He has all the documentation of the sabotage.”
The other officers were handcuffing Donna and Matthew. My daughter was crying uncontrollably, begging them to listen, to understand.
Matthew, on the other hand, remained silent, his face an impenetrable mask.
“You have the right to remain silent,” one of the officers began, reciting his rights. “Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
I watched the scene as if I were outside my body. This woman being arrested was my daughter. She carried my blood. She had grown up in my house, and now I was sending her to prison.
Carol hugged me as the officers led Donna and Matthew out of the house.
“You did the right thing,” she whispered in my ear. “You did not have another choice.”
“I know,” I replied, “but that does not make it hurt less.”
Before they put them in the patrol car, Donna turned to me one last time.
“Mom, please do not let them do this. I am your daughter.”
I did not answer. I could not. If I opened my mouth, I did not know if I would scream or cry.
The patrol car drove away, the red and blue lights illuminating the quiet night of the neighborhood. Neighbors had come out to their doors and windows, watching the drama. By tomorrow, the whole town would be talking about this.
Officer Miller stayed behind, finishing his report.
“Betty, I know this is difficult, but I want you to know that you did the right thing by reporting this. Attempted murder is a very serious thing.”
“What will happen now?” I asked, my voice sounding tired.
“Based on the evidence you presented, they will be formally charged with premeditated attempted homicide. With the recordings, the messages, and the physical evidence from the car, the case is quite solid. We will also investigate the death of Matthew Morales’s mother. They will go to prison, almost certainly for a very long time.”
Officer Miller closed his notebook.
“You will need to testify in court. Will you be ready for that?”
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “I will be ready.”
After everyone left, Carol and I stayed in the silent house. The dining room table was still set, the stew cooling on the untouched plates, the wine glasses untouched, the remains of a family dinner that never happened.
“Do you want me to stay the night?” Carol asked softly.
“Please.”
We sat in the living room in silence, processing everything that had happened. I had won. I had exposed Donna and Matthew. I had protected my assets. I had achieved justice.
But the victory tasted bitter.
“Do you think I will ever be able to forgive her?” I asked in the dark.
Carol took my hand.
“I do not know, Betty. Maybe with time. Or maybe not. But what I do know is that you did what you had to do to survive, and that is not something you should feel guilty about.”
My phone rang. It was Catherine.
“Betty, I just heard. Are you okay?”
“I am processing it,” I admitted.
“Tomorrow, we need to meet. There are legal matters to attend to, the will, the accounts. And you will probably want to consider a restraining order in case they get out on bail.”
“They will not get out,” I said with certainty. “The evidence is too solid.”
“Even so, better safe than sorry.” Catherine paused. “Betty, I know this is horrible, but you survived. And not only that, you fought back. Many women in your situation would not have had the courage or the cunning to do what you did.”
After hanging up, I stared at the night through the window. Somewhere in this city, Donna was in a cell, facing the consequences of her actions. Part of me—the part that was still a mother—wanted to run to rescue her. But the stronger part, the part that had fought to survive, knew that this was necessary.
“Do you think the loan sharks will really go after them?” Carol asked.
“Probably. But that is not my problem anymore.” My voice sounded colder than I intended. “Donna made her choice. Now she has to live with the consequences. Or, in this case, survive them.”
Six months later, I sat in my garden watching the flowers I had planted that spring—roses, gardenias, jasmine, the same ones my mother grew when I was a child. The morning sun was warm but not overwhelming, perfect for drinking the tea Carol had prepared for me.
Life had moved on, as it always does. The trial had been quick and definitive. Donna and Matthew were sentenced to twenty years in prison for premeditated attempted murder. Matthew received an additional fifteen-year sentence after his mother’s case was reopened and enough evidence was found to charge him with homicide. The similarities between both cases had been impossible to ignore.
Donna had written me three letters from prison. All three remained unopened in a drawer in my desk. I was not ready to read them. Maybe I never would be.
The loan sharks had tried to contact Donna in prison, but the authorities had intervened. It turned out that those criminals were being investigated for a dozen more serious crimes. Many of them also ended up behind bars. The irony did not escape me.
Catherine had finalized all the legal changes. My new will established a charitable foundation that would help older women who were victims of financial abuse by family members. It was a cause I now understood too well. Donna’s name had been completely removed from all my legal documents.
“More tea?” Carol appeared with the teapot, interrupting my thoughts.
“Please.”
I extended my cup. My sister had moved in with me after everything that happened. Neither of us wanted to be alone, and her company had been a balm for my wounded soul. Together, we had begun to rebuild a life that did not revolve around pain and betrayal.
“This arrived today.” Carol handed me an envelope. “It was from the state prison.”
Another letter from Donna. The fourth.
I held it in my hands, feeling the weight of the paper. Part of me wanted to open it, wanted to know what my daughter had to say after six months of confinement. But the other part, the part that was still healing, knew I was not ready.
“Are you going to read it?” Carol sat down next to me.
“Maybe someday.” I put the letter in the pocket of my robe. “But not today.”
A bird landed on the bird feeder I had installed near the roses. I watched it drink, oblivious to human dramas, living its simple and pure life. There was a lesson in that, I thought. About letting go of the past and focusing on the present.
“Brandon called yesterday,” Carol said. “He wants to know if you need him to check your new car.”
I had sold the sabotaged car as evidence after the trial and bought a new one. One that no one had touched, no one had manipulated. One that was completely mine and safe.
“Tell him yes. Next week would be fine.”
The breeze moved the jasmine leaves, bringing their sweet fragrance. I closed my eyes, allowing myself this moment of peace. I had survived not just physically but emotionally. I had faced the worst betrayal imaginable and had come out the other side. Not without scars. The scars were there—deep and invisible. They would probably never completely disappear. But I had learned to live with them, not to let them define who I was.
“Do you know what is the strangest thing?” I said suddenly. “I do not miss her. I thought I would, but I do not. I miss the Donna I thought she was, the daughter I thought I had, but that person never really existed.”
Carol took my hand.
“Or maybe she did exist. But she got lost along the way. The greed, the fear, Matthew… all of that changed her.”
“Maybe.” I took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth. “Or maybe she was always like this, and I just did not want to see it.”
I did not have answers, and I had learned to be at peace with that.
The phone rang inside the house. Carol got up to answer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my garden. I heard her muffled voice through the open window. Then she returned with a smile.
“It was Catherine. The foundation is already fully established. She says they already have three cases of women who need help.”
I smiled for the first time in what felt like years. Something good was coming out of all this pain. Other women would not suffer in silence as I almost did.
“Tell her I will go to the office tomorrow. I want to meet those women.”
The sun continued its ascent in the sky. The day stretched out before me, full of possibilities. I was no longer afraid. I no longer looked over my shoulder, wondering who would want to harm me. I had learned the hardest lesson of all: that sometimes danger comes from where you least expect it, from the people you love the most.
But I had also learned that you are stronger than you imagine, that you can survive even the deepest betrayal.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the sun on my face. At seventy-two years old, I had started a new life. A life without Donna, yes, but also a life without fear, without lies, without hidden plans of death. A life that was completely, finally mine.
Carol sat down next to me again, and together we watched the garden in silence. We did not need words. We had been through hell together and had come out the other side. The rest of my life stretched out before me like that garden, full of possibilities for growth, for beauty, for peace.
And this time I would live it on my own terms, without fear, without betrayal—just me, my garden, and the tranquility that comes after the storm.
