The Breakthrough
At the café a kind-eyed man in his fifties approached my table. Steven.
He opened a folder and played a recorder.
First Ernest’s voice, worried, explaining his suspicions.
Then my sons’ voices, cold and clear:
“The old man is starting to get suspicious,” Charles said. “I already have the methanol. The symptoms look like a stroke. Mom won’t be a problem.”
Another clip:
“Once we have Dad’s insurance money, we need to get rid of Mom too,” Charles said. “We can make it look like a suicide. Everything would be ours.”
I shook uncontrollably. My sons had murdered their father and planned to murder me. All for money.
Steven had more—photos of Charles buying methanol, records of their debts.
That night we went to the police.
Sergeant O’Connell listened, his face darkening. “This is monstrous.”
Arrest warrants were issued.
At dawn police cars swarmed my sons’ mansions. Charles collapsed when the recordings were played. Henry tried to run.
