Chapter 2 - The Theatre of the Mind
Returning home the next morning required a performance worthy of an Academy Award. I walked into the foyer of my estate, my movements slightly slowed, my eyes unfocused.
Jason was in the study, his voice booming as he spoke to an attorney on the phone about "conservatorship." When he saw me, he hung up, his face shifting instantly into a mask of hollow concern.
"Karina! You're back early. I was so worried about you wandering off last night. Did you make it home okay?"
"The wine," I murmured, staring at a painting on the wall. "I think... I think I left it there. Jason, did we have dinner? I feel so tired lately."
He moved in quickly, his hand resting on my shoulder with a pressure that was more like a grip than a comfort. "It’s okay, dear. You’ve been having these lapses for weeks. It’s for the best. We’re going to handle everything. The finances, the house, your care. You just need to rest."
I looked at him, searching his eyes. Behind the false empathy was a desperate, feral greed. He was drowning—I could smell it on him, the scent of unchecked gambling debts and luxury cars he couldn't afford.
"Sylvia," I whispered. "Where is my daughter?"
"She’s at work. She’s worried, too, Karina. We both are."
I went to my room, closing the door and locking it. My room was a sanctuary, but it was also a fortress. I moved a heavy mahogany dresser to reveal a wall safe that even Sylvia didn't know existed. Inside was my old casebook—the one I had kept when I retired. It contained contact information for lab techs, retired detectives, and analysts who owed me favors that spanned thirty years.
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I wasn't just a victim. I was the architect of their downfall. I began to plant the first seed of doubt. I left my bank statements open on the desk, modified with discrepancies that would lead Jason to believe I had already transferred the bulk of my liquid assets to an offshore account.
He needed to panic. And he needed to think I was too far gone to notice.
