Chapter 4 - Secrets Beneath the Floorboards
Detective Cole pulled a folding chair close to Rosalind’s bedside, resting a thick manila folder on his knees.
“Tell me about your son’s financial situation, Mrs. Rosalind,” Cole began, opening the folder to reveal several printed bank statements and a notarized insurance policy document. “Because from where I’m sitting, Gavin and Priscilla were drowning in debt.”
Rosalind frowned, shaking her head. “Gavin worked as an architectural draftsman, and Priscilla did freelance graphic design. They lived in a nice neighborhood, but... I didn't know about any severe debt.”
“They were six hundred thousand dollars in the red,” Cole said flatly. “Mortgage default notices, luxury car repossessions pending, and maxed-out credit cards spanning four states. But three months ago, Gavin took out a multi-million-dollar term life insurance policy on Savannah. Double indemnity rider for accidental death or terminal illness.”
The words hung in the sterile air like poison.
“They were going to cash in on her death,” Rosalind whispered, her chest tightening. “They killed her—or tried to—for a check?”
“It gets worse,” Detective Cole continued, flipping to a series of photographs taken inside Gavin’s walk-in closet. “My guys tore up the floorboards in the master closet after noticing an uneven seam in the subfloor. Down there, we found a makeshift medical supply cache. Empty vials of pentobarbital, surgical tubing, adult-sized chemical restraints, and a digital tablet.”
He slid a printed screenshot across the tray table.
It was a screenshot of an internet search history: ‘How to induce a fake coma with minimal detection,’ ‘Lethal dose of barbiturates for a thirty-pound child,’ and ‘Cremation vs. Embalming regulations in Minnesota.’
“They didn't just stumble into this,” Cole said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “They planned it down to the minute. They told the family Savannah had a respiratory infection, kept her isolated for two weeks under the guise of quarantine, and slowly increased her dosage until her vitals flatlined enough for a bribed local physician to sign off on a provisional death certificate.”
“A physician?” Rosalind asked sharply. “Which doctor?”
“Dr. Arthur Vance,” Cole replied. “An old college buddy of Gavin’s whose medical license was already under review by the state board for pill-mill operations. We picked him up an hour ago at his clinic. He cracked before we even sat him down in the interrogation room.”
Rosalind looked back toward the bed. Savannah was still sleeping, her chest rising and falling in a steady, natural rhythm. The nightmare was exposed to the light, but the web of deceit ran deeper than she could have ever imagined.
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“Detective,” Rosalind said, standing up from her chair, her eyes burning with a sudden, fierce determination. “When Savannah wakes up, I want her under 24-hour armed guard. Because if Gavin and Priscilla had friends in high places, there might be others who don't want my granddaughter talking to a jury.”
Detective Cole nodded grimly, standing up and pulling out his radio. “Already taken care of, ma’am. State troopers are stationed outside the door right now. Nobody gets in without my clearance.”
