I gave her all the account numbers, all the passwords, all the documents I had stored in my private safe deposit box.
Sarah worked quickly, taking photos of everything with her phone.
“One more thing,” she said before leaving. “I need you to keep pretending. Keep being the dying, trusting mother. Every day they think they are winning is one more day we have to gather evidence.”
“I can do that,” I said. “I’m a better actress than they think.”
Sarah smiled for the first time.
“I know. The simple fact that you are planning this while they believe you are dying tells me you are an extraordinary woman, Ms. Helen.”
When she left after two in the morning, I felt something I hadn’t felt in days—hope, control, power.
Mark and Rachel returned at three, drunk and loud. I heard them stumbling up the stairs, laughing like teenagers.
“I won two thousand,” Mark was saying. “Two thousand damn dollars in one night. It’s a sign.”
“Things are turning around for us,” Rachel replied. “We’ll finally have what we deserve.”
They went into their bedroom across the hall from mine and continued talking. I turned up the volume on the intercom.
“When is the appraiser coming?” Mark asked.
“Tomorrow at ten. I told him to come through the back door to be discreet,” Rachel said. “Your mother can’t see him.”
“Perfect. And the transfer papers—I have them ready. We just need her signature. Even if she’s weak, even if she can barely write, a mark is enough. My cousin, the notary, already knows what to do. We’ll pay him five thousand to look the other way.”
“And what if she refuses to sign?” Mark asked.
There was a pause. Then Rachel said something that left me breathless.
“Then Frank does his job ahead of schedule. Either way, in four days maximum, she won’t be a problem anymore.”
“I like the way you think,” Mark laughed.
I recorded every word on my phone. Every single damn word.
The next day, Brenda arrived early with a grocery bag that no one checked. Inside were the three tiny cameras—small, button-sized, with a Wi-Fi connection directly to an application on my phone.
“Where should I install them?” she whispered.
“The main living room where they sit and talk—put it inside the floral arrangement on the mantelpiece,” I said. “The second one in the study behind the books on the shelf, and the third one in the dining room, stuck under the hanging chandelier.”
Brenda worked quickly and silently while Mark and Rachel had breakfast on the patio. In twenty minutes, all three cameras were installed and working.
I checked the app on my phone. The images were clear. The audio was perfect.
“Excellent work, Brenda.”
“To serve you, Ms. Helen,” she murmured. “These two don’t know who they messed with.”
At ten o’clock sharp, just as Rachel had said, the appraiser arrived—a man in his fifties with a briefcase and a professional camera. Mark led him in through the garden door.
From my room, through the cameras, I watched them move through my house like vultures. The appraiser took photos, made notes, evaluating every piece of furniture, every artwork, every detail.
“This lamp is an antique Tiffany,” he was saying, pointing to the crystal chandelier in the dining room that I had bought in New York. “It’s worth at least fifty thousand.”
“What about the piano?” Rachel asked.
“That’s an original Steinway. One hundred thousand, easy.”
Mark smiled as he totaled the figures.
“How much in total for all the contents of the house? Not counting the house itself.”
“You’re talking about four hundred thousand in furnishings, art, and objects.”
“Incredible,” Rachel whispered. “It’s more than I thought.”
“When can we proceed with the sale?” Mark asked.
The appraiser looked at him with some discomfort.
“Is your mother agreeable to this?”
“My mother is very ill. She has days left,” Mark said. “She gave me complete authorization to handle her affairs.”
The lie came so naturally from his lips.
“I understand,” the appraiser said. “Well, I’ll need legal documents to prove that authorization.”
“We’ll have them soon,” Mark assured him.
I recorded everything—every word, every gesture, every complicit glance between Mark and Rachel.
After the appraiser left, they came up to my room with papers in hand and fake smiles on their faces.
“Mom, you’re awake,” Mark said with nauseating sweetness. “We need you to sign these papers. They are for the health insurance so we can pay your treatments without issues.”
I looked at the papers. They were property transfers, documents that would give them total control of my estate.
“I can’t see well,” I murmured. “The letters are blurry.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom. Just sign here.”
Mark put the pen in my hand. I let my hand tremble exaggeratedly.
“I can’t, son. It hurts too much. Tomorrow, please.”
I saw frustration in his eyes, but he nodded.
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