THE POISONED BOWL

I stared at the silver watch resting in my trembling palm. The glass was scratched, the metal tarnished, but I knew the intricate engraving of the eagle on the back. I had placed this exact watch into my father’s casket with my own two hands.

How was it in my daughter's jacket?

Detective Miller walked back into the room. He saw the color drained from my face and immediately crossed the floor. "What is that?"

"My father's watch," I said, my voice completely hollow. "He was buried with it."

Miller took an evidence bag from his jacket and held it open. I dropped the heavy silver timepiece inside.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Miller asked.

"I put it in his suit pocket myself," I said. "Before they closed the lid. My husband stood right next to me."

"Mommy," my daughter whispered from the bed, pointing a weak finger at the bag. "Daddy's treasure."

I knelt back down, keeping my voice as steady as I could. "Baby, where did you get that?"

"I took it," she said, looking down. "Daddy was mad. He kept it in his secret box in the garage. He had a lot of them. Rings and shiny things. I took it to show you because it looked like Grandpa."

My husband hadn't just forged life insurance.

He was a grave robber.

The wealth he was using to woo Eleanor, the sudden influx of cash over the last few years that he claimed came from "investments"—it all made sick, twisted sense now. He had been targeting the deceased.

"Detective," I said, standing up. "My husband works as an independent contractor for a landscaping company. They do all the groundskeeping for St. Jude's Cemetery."

Miller’s eyes widened. He immediately raised his radio to his shoulder. "Dispatch, I need a second team at the suspect's residence. Do not touch anything in the garage. We may have a massive stolen property cache."

A commotion at the end of the hallway drew our attention. A woman in a tailored beige coat and dark sunglasses was arguing with two police officers. She pulled her glasses off, revealing red, swollen eyes.

I recognized the face from the photo on his phone. It was Eleanor.

Miller stepped out to intercept her, but she pushed past him, her eyes locking onto me.

"You're alive," Eleanor gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

"I am," I said coldly, stepping between her and my daughter's door.

Eleanor didn't look like a calculating homewrecker. She looked utterly broken. She reached into her expensive leather purse and pulled out a manila envelope.

"He told me you died," she wept, holding it out to me with trembling hands. "He told me he needed the money to pay off the medical debts from your accident. But when the police called me just now... I went into his desk at my house."

I took the envelope. It was heavy.

"I thought I was helping a grieving man save his home," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

I tore the flap open and tipped the envelope upside down.

A stack of documents slid into my hands. Not insurance papers. Not cemetery maps.