Chapter 7 - THE LOCKBOX IN THE ATTIC
The words hit Helen like a physical blow.
He needed a nurse.
Vanessa was dragged out the glass doors by the detective, leaving Helen standing in the middle of the bank lobby, the world spinning around her.
Helen was a registered nurse. For thirty years, she had administered medications, managed crash carts, and handled controlled substances. But she had never, not once in her entire career, diverted a single pill from the hospital pharmacy.
Patrick knew that. He knew her record was spotless.
Which made her the perfect scapegoat.
Helen rushed out of the bank, catching up to the detective as he shoved Vanessa into the back of the squad car.
"Detective!" Helen shouted, grabbing his arm. "Vanessa just told me the digitalis has been in my house for six months. She said Patrick used my credentials to get it."
The detective frowned, turning to face her. "Mrs. Brooks, Patrick had the bottle in his safe at the office. We have it in evidence."
"Vanessa said Aris bought an empty bottle to frame Diane," Helen insisted, her mind racing, putting the terrifying pieces together. "Patrick wasn't just planning to kill me for the insurance money. He was planning to frame me for my own murder—or worse, use my medical credentials to prove that I committed suicide using stolen hospital drugs, ensuring the life insurance paid out immediately without a homicide investigation."
The detective’s eyes widened. "If there’s stolen digitalis in your house, we need to find it before Patrick’s lawyers can use it to build a defense claiming you were mentally unstable and hoarding lethal drugs."
"I need to go home," Helen said, her voice trembling but resolute. "Right now."
The drive back to the suburbs felt agonizingly slow. Helen's mind raced through every corner of her house, every cabinet, every hidden space Patrick could have used. He had been planning this for months, smiling at her across the dinner table while hiding the weapon he intended to use against her.
When they arrived at the house, a single patrol car was parked out front, securing the perimeter. The house looked exactly as Helen had left it that morning—quiet, pristine, deceptive.
"Where would he hide it?" the detective asked as they walked through the front door. "We can call a forensics team to tear the place apart, but it will take hours."
"He wouldn't put it anywhere obvious," Helen said, pacing the living room. "Not the bathroom, not the kitchen. Somewhere I never go. Somewhere he controls."
She stopped pacing. She looked up at the ceiling.
"The attic," Helen whispered. "I haven't been up there since Molly went to college. Patrick uses it to store his old architectural models. He installed a new padlock on the hatch door six months ago. He told me it was to keep the humidity out, but it’s an interior door. It doesn't make sense."
The detective didn't hesitate. "Show me."
They hurried down the hallway to the pull-down staircase. The heavy brass padlock secured the wooden hatch firmly shut.
The detective drew his heavy flashlight, gripping it like a hammer, and smashed the padlock with three brutal, echoing strikes. The lock snapped. He pulled the stairs down, motioning for Helen to wait, and climbed up into the dark, dusty space.
"It's clear," the detective called down a moment later.
Helen climbed the wooden steps, her heart pounding in her ears. The attic smelled of old wood, dust, and mothballs. Stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic bins lined the walls, filled with old holiday decorations and Patrick’s architectural drafting tubes.
"Where do we start?" the detective asked, sweeping his flashlight across the shadows.
Helen walked over to Patrick’s designated corner. There was a large, heavy workbench covered in old blueprints. Beneath the workbench sat a pristine, dark green metal lockbox. It looked entirely out of place among the dusty cardboard.
"There," Helen pointed.
The detective knelt down and examined the box. "It’s a biometric lock. Same as the one on his office safe. We’ll need a warrant to force it."
"No, we don't," Helen said, stepping forward.
She knelt beside the box. She had spent thirty-four years married to Patrick. She knew his arrogance. He believed he was smarter than everyone else, but he was inherently lazy when it came to details. When they installed their home security system years ago, he had used the same four-digit override pin for every single electronic lock they owned.
The year they got married.
Helen punched in the four numbers on the digital keypad. 1989.
The lock beeped a cheerful green tone and clicked open.
The detective let out a low whistle. He lifted the heavy metal lid.
Inside the box wasn't just a bottle of digitalis.
It was an entire meticulously organized blackmail file.
There were dozens of printed emails between Patrick and Diane, detailing their affair dating back ten years. There were financial documents proving Patrick had embezzled from his own partners long before the recent recession.
And resting on top of it all was a thick, sealed hospital evidence bag containing three vials of concentrated digitalis—stamped with a barcode from the pharmacy at Helen’s hospital.
"He really did it," Helen whispered, staring at the vials. "He stole them using my badge."
The detective carefully pulled out a piece of paper sitting beneath the vials. He read it, his face turning grim. He handed it to Helen.
It was a drafted suicide note.
Written in a font designed to look like Helen’s handwriting, it detailed her "overwhelming depression," her "guilt" over stealing hospital drugs, and her decision to end her life so Patrick and Molly could move on without her "burden."
Helen dropped the paper as if it were on fire.
Patrick hadn't just planned to kill her. He had planned to erase her legacy. He wanted Molly to remember her mother as a thief and a coward, leaving him to play the grieving, heroic widower who bravely carried on with the marketing director by his side.
"He’s a monster," Helen gasped, tears of pure rage burning her eyes.
"He’s a monster who just handed us the entire prosecution on a silver platter," the detective said gently, closing the lockbox. "This box proves premeditation, forgery, and theft. He’s going away for the rest of his life, Mrs. Brooks. And Diane and Aris are going right down with him."
Helen stood up in the dusty attic, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The suffocating weight that had pressed down on her chest for months finally began to lift.
"Take it all," Helen said, her voice steady and resolute. "I want him to know I found it. I want him to know I beat him."
As they climbed down from the attic, Helen’s cell phone rang. It was Robert Hayes.
"Helen," Robert said, his voice unusually warm. "I just got word from the bank. The three million is secure. Vanessa didn't get a dime."
"I know, Robert. I was there when they arrested her," Helen said, a faint smile touching her lips.
"There’s something else," Robert continued. "I just convened an emergency meeting with the remaining partners. With Patrick officially indicted and his shares seized by the federal authorities, the firm is going to need restructuring. Patrick built this company on your sacrifices, Helen. Your money funded the seed capital. Your labor kept the lights on when we started."
May you like
Helen frowned. "Robert, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying the board just voted unanimously," Robert said proudly. "We want you to take Patrick’s seat. Not as a silent partner. We want you on the executive board, Helen. We want you to help us rebuild the company he tried to destroy."
