Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Capitol Hill
I waited until 2 a.m. that night, until Daniel’s breathing had evened out into the heavy, wine-induced snore he got after three glasses, until I’d heard Margaret’s bedroom door click shut and the hum of her white noise machine start down the hall. Then I slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and crept up to the attic.
The air smelled like dust and cedar and my dad’s old pipe tobacco, the floorboards creaking under my weight as I made my way to the back corner where the file boxes had been stacked. They were gone. In their place was a single empty cardboard box, torn open, the packing peanuts scattered across the floor like dirty snow.
I sank to my knees, my throat tight. They’d taken everything. The trust documents, the original will, the bank statements from the account Dad had set up in my name only—all of it. For a second, I wanted to scream. To wake Daniel up and throw the flash drive in his face and ask him how he could do this to the woman who’d loved him through his failed startup, through his mom’s cancer scare, through every stupid, selfish choice he’d ever made. Then I remembered Thomas’s voice: Let them think the tea is still working.
I stood up, brushing the dust off my sleep shorts, and crept back down the stairs. As I passed the second-floor office, I heard voices. Low, urgent, coming from behind the closed door. Margaret’s, sharp and fast, and Daniel’s, whiny and defensive, the way he got when he was caught doing something he knew was wrong.
“I told you we should have burned them,” Margaret hissed. “If she finds the forgeries before the hearing, we’re screwed.”
“Relax,” Daniel said, and I heard the clink of a whiskey glass against a desk. “She’s so doped up she can barely remember her own birthday. Dr. Hale is already paid off, the social worker is coming next week, and the life insurance policy went through yesterday. Half a million dollars, Claire as the primary insured, me as the sole beneficiary. If the competency thing falls through? We’ve got a backup plan.”
My blood ran cold. Life insurance. Half a million dollars. They weren’t just planning to lock me up. They were planning to kill me.
I pressed my ear harder to the door, my hands fisted at my sides.
“Lila’s backup plan almost got us caught,” Margaret snapped. “I still say we stick to the psych ward. Cleaner. Less paperwork.”
“Lila was an idiot,” Daniel said, and I flinched like he’d slapped me. “She fought back. Claire won’t. She’s too nice. Too scared of being alone. She’ll sign the papers, cry a little, and go to the clinic like a good little girl. And if she doesn’t? The brake line on her Honda is easy to cut. The cops will write it off as a grieving widow distracted by her breakdown.”
I backed away from the door, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and ran back to the bedroom, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. I slipped back under the covers, pulling the sheet up to my chin, and closed my eyes as Daniel’s bedroom door creaked open a minute later. I lay there, frozen, for the rest of the night, listening to him snore, replaying every word they’d said. Lila was an idiot. The brake line on her Honda is easy to cut.
At 6 a.m., when the first gray light seeped through the curtains, I slipped out of bed again, grabbed my laptop from the kitchen, and locked myself in the powder room. I typed Lila Marlow Baltimore nurse into the search bar, my fingers shaking. The first result was a 2018 missing person’s report from the Baltimore City Police Department: Lila Marie Marlow, 32, registered nurse, last seen leaving her Capitol Hill row house on October 12. Vehicle found abandoned on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway with signs of forced entry. Foul play suspected.
The second result was a comment on a local true crime blog, left three years prior by a user named LM2018: I’m not dead. I ran. They were going to kill me for my house. If you’re married to Daniel Morgan, or his mother Margaret is living with you, get out now. They don’t just steal money. They steal lives.
I copied the email address linked to the comment, typed a fast, frantic message—My name is Claire Morgan. I’m married to Daniel. I have proof of what they did to you. Please call me—and hit send. Ten minutes later, my phone rang, a blocked number flashing on the screen.
May you like
I answered, my voice barely a whisper. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice, rough and tired, like she’d spent the last eight years looking over her shoulder, came through the line. “You’re not the first widow-in-waiting he’s picked, Claire. They tried to kill me. And if you don’t do exactly what I say, they’re going to succeed with you.”
