Chapter 8 - The Sting Operation
Patricia’s face instantly lost its color. Brianna swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the door.
“What… what camera?” Patricia stammered, trying to regain her footing. “Ryan, don't listen to her. She’s clearly suffering from postpartum psychosis. You can't trust anything she says.”
“The cloud,” I said, ignoring Patricia entirely and keeping my eyes locked on my husband. “The security camera above the pantry uploads automatically to our encrypted cloud storage. The login credentials are saved on your laptop, Ryan. Go to the app. Check the timestamp from Tuesday afternoon at 2:15 PM.”
Ryan didn't hesitate. The doubt that his mother had carefully planted over the last three days evaporated in an instant. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in his sister’s eyes, and that was all the confirmation he needed.
“Ryan, wait!” Patricia grabbed his arm as he moved toward the door. “Don't leave her alone like this. She needs psychiatric help, not a wild goose chase—”
“Get your hands off me, Mom,” Ryan said. His voice wasn't angry; it was dangerously, deadly quiet. It was a tone I had never heard him use before.
He shook her hand off and walked out of the room.
I looked at Patricia and Brianna. The power dynamic in the room shifted instantly. They were no longer the smug, untouchable matriarchs of the Brooks family. They were cornered predators.
“You think you’re so clever,” Patricia hissed, stepping closer to my bed, her mask completely slipping off to reveal the monster underneath. “Even if there is a video, we have the best lawyers in the city. We will tie you up in court until you are completely bankrupt. You will never see a dime of the Brooks family inheritance.”
“I don't want your money, Patricia,” I said softly, looking at her with pity. “I never did. I only wanted a family. But you? You’re going to need every single dollar for your defense fund. Because as a forensic accountant, I didn't just look at Brianna’s fake documents before she attacked me. I memorized the bank routing numbers she used.”
Brianna gasped, clutching her purse.
“You’ve been embezzling from your own mother’s charity estate to fund your gambling debts, haven't you, Brianna?” I smiled, a cold, sharp expression. “And Patricia, you’ve been signing off on it to cover up your own tax evasion. I saw the shell company names on those forged trust papers. You brought your own downfall right into my kitchen.”
Before either of them could reply, the door to the ICU room swung open.
May you like
Ryan walked back in, holding his laptop. His face was completely blank, but tears were streaming down his cheeks. He looked at his sister, then at his mother, with a look of profound, irreparable heartbreak.
Behind him stepped two uniformed police officers and a detective.
