Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
The next morning, the sun rose over a gray, frosty Chicago.
Inside our SUV, parked a block away from our suburban home, Claire, Marcus, and I sat in silence. We had spent the night planning, mapping out every move with the precision of a chess match.
My phone rang. The screen displayed: MOM.
I looked at Claire. She nodded. I pressed the speakerphone button.
“Arthur,” Margaret’s voice came through the line, cold and transactional. “I assume you’ve cooled your head after last night’s disgraceful display.”
“I’m at the hospital, Mom,” I said, my voice thick with mock exhaustion and panic.
There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end of the line. “The hospital? Why? Is Ethan sick?”
“No,” I said. “It’s Claire. She... she started vomiting in the car last night. We had to rush her to the emergency room. The doctors say her organs are failing. They don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from Margaret. It wasn't a sound of sorrow. It was the sound of a predator realizing its prey had finally fallen into the trap.
“Oh, my goodness,” Margaret said, her voice instantly shifting into a pitch-perfect tone of maternal concern. “That’s... that’s terrible, Arthur. Is she... is she conscious?”
“No,” I lied, looking directly at Claire, who was sitting right next to me, her face pale but her eyes sharp. “She’s in a medically induced coma. The doctors are running tests, but they said it looks like some kind of severe toxic reaction. They’re asking if she ate anything unusual.”
“Well, she’s always had a delicate stomach,” Margaret said quickly. “I told you she shouldn't have been buying those cheap, organic steaks from that local butcher. It was probably E. coli or botulism. Arthur, you need to stay strong. I’m coming over to the house right now to take care of Ethan. You shouldn't have to worry about the home while you're at her bedside.”
“The police might want to look at the kitchen, Mom,” I added, throwing the bait. “The doctors said if it’s food poisoning, they have to report it to the health department. They might send someone to collect samples from the fridge.”
“Don’t worry about that, darling,” Margaret said, her voice tight. “I’ll go to the house and clean up. We don’t want some government bureaucrats noseying around your home while you’re going through this. I’ll make sure everything is pristine before anyone arrives.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I said, my voice trembling with a very real, very dark emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I know, Arthur. I’ve always taken care of you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up.
Marcus turned to me from the backseat, holding a small, high-definition digital camera and a set of wireless audio receivers. “She’s taking the bait. She’s going to the house to destroy the remaining evidence—the leftovers, the seasoning, and any trace of the Colchicine she might have left in the pantry.”
“And we’ll be waiting,” I said.
We drove to the house, entering through the back door to avoid being seen by the neighbors. Marcus quickly went to work, installing three tiny, motion-activated spy cameras in the kitchen—one above the sink, one facing the pantry, and one directly over the trash can where the leftovers had been discarded.
Claire and I retreated to the master bedroom upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the live video feed on my tablet.
At 10:15 AM, the sound of a car engine echoed in the driveway.
May you like
Through the bedroom window, I saw Margaret’s silver Mercedes pull up. She stepped out, wearing her elegant winter coat, her purse clutched tightly under her arm. She didn't look like a woman coming to comfort a grieving family.
She looked like a woman on a mission.
