Chapter 6 - The Rose Garden Secret
I stood in the entryway, my chest heaving, staring at the social worker, at the ransacked house, at the empty spot on the wall where the camera used to be. For half a second, I wanted to scream. To throw something. To tell her exactly who Daniel and Margaret were, exactly what they’d done, exactly how they’d paid her to lie. Then I remembered Lila’s voice: Don’t fight them in the moment. They have the system on their side. Fight them where they don’t expect it.
I let my shoulders slump, my face softening into the familiar, fragile mask they expected. I wiped a fake tear off my cheek, my voice wobbly. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, stepping inside, closing the door behind me. “I’ve just been so stressed. About the move, about Dad. I didn’t mean to waste anyone’s time.”
Maria’s smile widened, predatory, as she stepped closer, holding out the papers. “I know, sweetheart,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “That’s why we’re here to help. All you have to do is sign these, and we’ll take you to a nice, quiet clinic where you can rest. No more stress. No more delusions.”
I glanced down at the papers. Emergency Petition for Involuntary Psychiatric Hold. My name typed across the top. Dr. Hale’s forged signature at the bottom. If I signed them, it was over. They’d lock me up, sell the house, take the money, and I’d never see the light of day again.
I took a step back, my eyes darting to the back door, to the garden beyond. “I just need a minute,” I said, my voice shaking. “I want to say goodbye to the roses. Dad loved roses. Thomas Reed’s wife planted them. I promised I’d take care of them.”
Maria hesitated, then nodded, glancing at her watch. “Five minutes,” she said. “Then we go.”
I walked out the back door, the July sun hot on my face, and made my way to the rose garden at the far end of the yard. The climbing roses Thomas had mentioned at the closing were in full bloom, pink and white and fragrant, their vines climbing up the old stone wall. I knelt down in the dirt, my hands brushing the petals, and remembered what Thomas had said the night he’d helped me plant the cameras: If you ever need proof they can’t destroy, dig under the third rose bush from the left. I buried something there 30 years ago. Something that will take Margaret down for good.
I glanced over my shoulder. Maria was standing in the kitchen doorway, scrolling through her phone, not paying attention. I grabbed the small trowel I kept by the garden hose and dug.
The dirt was soft, damp from the morning rain. I dug two feet down, my hands covered in mud, until the trowel hit something hard. Metal. A small, rusted lockbox. I pried it open with the edge of the trowel, my heart hammering.
Inside, wrapped in a plastic bag to keep the water out, was a stack of old letters, a yellowed contract, and a photo. The photo was of a young woman with Thomas’s eyes, smiling, holding a set of keys to a house in Bethesda. His daughter, Emily. The letters were from Margaret, written in 1996, begging Emily’s then-fiancé to “convince” Emily to sign the house over to him, promising him half the profits. The contract was signed by Margaret and the fiancé, agreeing to split the $400,000 sale price 50/50 after they had Emily declared incompetent.
Emily had died in a “car accident” three weeks before the closing. The police wrote it off as drunk driving. Thomas had spent 30 years trying to prove Margaret killed her.
I stuffed the lockbox contents into my duffel bag, brushing the dirt off my jeans, and stood up. I turned around to walk back to the house, and froze.
Daniel was standing ten feet away, leaning against the garden fence, his arms crossed over his chest, a cold smile on his face. “Digging up old flowers, honey?” he asked, his voice dangerous. “Or old secrets?”
I didn’t flinch. I held up a small rose cutting, my face blank. “Just planting new ones,” I said, stepping past him, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder. “Dad always said the best gardens grow from the darkest dirt.”
He followed me back into the house, his eyes never leaving my bag, but he didn’t say anything. Maria was waiting by the front door, the papers still in her hand. “Time to go, Claire,” she said.
I smiled, reaching into my bag like I was going to sign the papers, and pulled out my phone. I held it up, the screen showing a live feed of the garden—of Daniel standing by the fence, of me digging up the box. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, my voice steady. “This feed is streaming live to three different cloud servers, and to a lawyer I’ve never met. If I don’t text him a code in the next 10 minutes, he sends every bit of evidence I have to every news station in DC. To the FBI. To the IRS, who’s been looking for Margaret for 20 years for tax fraud. Do you really want to risk that?”
Maria’s face went white. She dropped the papers like they were on fire, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door. Daniel stood there, his face red with rage, his hands fisted at his sides. “You think this is over?” he snarled. “You think a few old letters are going to stop us?”
I walked past him, up the stairs, and locked myself in the bedroom. “I think it’s a start,” I called over my shoulder.
That night, I waited until the house was quiet, then logged into my bank account. I’d moved most of the money into a hidden offshore account Thomas had helped me set up the week before, but I’d left a few thousand in the checking account to make them think I hadn’t caught on. I froze when I saw the new transaction, posted that afternoon: Life Insurance Premium: $1,247.00. Policy #48291. Insured: Claire Morgan. Beneficiary: Daniel Morgan. Coverage: $500,000.
I closed my laptop, my hands shaking, and lay down in the dark. I was just about to fall asleep when I smelled it. Smoke. Thick, acrid, coming from under the bedroom door.
I jumped out of bed, running to the door, and grabbed the handle. It was hot. Locked from the outside. The smoke was getting thicker, stinging my eyes, making it hard to breathe. I could hear Margaret’s voice, low and triumphant, from the hallway: She smokes sometimes. The police will buy it. By the time they get here, there won’t be enough left to prove otherwise.
I ran to the window, yanking it open, the cool night air hitting my face. The fire was small, contained to the hallway rug, but it was spreading fast. I climbed out onto the second-floor ledge, my bare feet slipping on the shingles, and jumped.
I hit the grass hard, rolling, my shoulder screaming in pain, and stood up. I grabbed the garden hose from the side of the house, turned it on full blast, and sprayed the window, the fire dying down with a hiss. I stood there in the dark, the cold water soaking my clothes, my shoulder throbbing, and stared up at the bedroom window.
May you like
They’d tried to kill me. Tonight. For real. No more games. No more plans. Just fire and smoke and a fake suicide note they’d probably already planted on my desk.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, my hands shaking, and called Thomas. “They tried to burn me alive,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s time to end this.”
