At Thanksgiving dinner, my son said his steak smelled strange and refused to eat it. My mother snapped at him for being picky, but when my nephew reached over to take it for himself, my wife’s face went pale, and she screamed, “No! Don’t eat that!”

On the tablet screen, the kitchen camera flickered to life as the back door opened.

Margaret walked in, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. She stood in the center of the kitchen for a moment, her eyes scanning the counters. She looked at the sink, where the dirty dishes from the night before were still piled.

She let out a soft, annoyed sigh, then walked directly to the refrigerator.

She opened the door, her hands moving with rapid efficiency. She grabbed the remaining raw steaks from the bottom drawer, throwing them into a large, heavy-duty black trash bag she had brought in her purse. She did the same with the leftover cranberry sauce, the gravy, and even the turkey carcass.

“She’s disposing of everything,” Claire whispered, her hand gripping my shoulder. “She doesn’t want them to test any of the food.”

But Margaret wasn't done.

On the screen, we watched her walk over to the spice rack. She reached behind the salt and pepper shakers, searching for something. She frowned, her fingers clawing at the wooden shelves.

“Where is it?” she muttered, her voice picked up clearly by the hidden microphone Marcus had installed. “Where did that stupid girl put it?”

She was looking for the pill crusher.

When she couldn't find it, a flicker of panic crossed her face. She began opening drawers, slamming them shut with increasing frustration. She checked the dishwasher, the pantry, and even the microwave.

“Arthur,” she muttered to herself, her voice tight with anger. “Did you take it? No... you’re too stupid to notice.”

She stopped, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She pulled her phone from her purse and dialed a number.

A few seconds later, my brother Ben’s voice came through her speakerphone. “Mom? Where are you? We’re at the hotel.”

“Ben, I’m at Arthur’s house,” Margaret said, her voice instantly transforming into her sweet, fragile maternal tone. “I came to clean up. Claire is in the hospital, Ben. She’s... she’s very sick. Arthur says her organs are failing.”

“What?” Ben gasped. “Oh my god, Mom. Is it... is it because of the food? I told Tyler not to eat that steak!”

“Yes, it was definitely the food,” Margaret said quickly. “But listen to me, Ben. Arthur is completely hysterical. He’s talking about calling the police and the health department. You know how Claire’s parents are—they’ll try to blame us for this. They’ll try to say our family was negligent.”

“Mom, what are you talking about?” Ben asked, confused.

“I need you to do something for me, Ben,” Margaret said, her voice dropping into a cold, commanding whisper. “The audit documents... the ones Claire was working on. They’re in her home office on the second floor. I need you to come over here and help me find them. We need to... secure them. Before the police or her family try to use them to cause trouble.”

“Mom...” Ben’s voice sounded hesitant, a rare moment of doubt from the golden son. “Are you asking me to steal Claire’s files? While she’s in a coma?”

“I am trying to save this family, Ben!” Margaret snapped, her polite facade cracking. “If those files get out, your inheritance is gone! Your real estate business is gone! Do you understand me? We are in this together!”