Chapter 5
Jensen left a copy of the will with us and promised to do whatever he could to help.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I turned to Mia.
“Two million dollars,” I said. “Can you believe that?”
“I can believe that someone would kill for it,” she said grimly. “And I can believe they’d frame you to get it. Think about it — whoever’s been pretending to be you for the past three months, gaining Mrs. Whitaker’s trust, convincing her to change her will… they planned this perfectly. They knew that once she was dead, you’d be the prime suspect. You’re broke, you’re alone, you’re pregnant. No one would question that you’d kill for that kind of money.”
“But why leave it to me in the first place?” I asked. “Why not just have her leave it to them?”
“Because that would be suspicious,” Mia said, pacing the kitchen. “A stranger shows up, three months later the old lady changes her will to leave everything to them, then she dies? Red flags everywhere. But if she leaves it to the nice pregnant girl next door — the one everyone already feels sorry for? That’s heartwarming. That’s a feel-good story. Until the nice girl turns out to be a murderer.”
She stopped pacing.
“Whoever did this is smart. Really smart. They’ve been planning this for months. Every detail thought out. The fake visits. The will. The fifty thousand in your mailbox. The confession note. It all leads straight to you.”
“Brian,” I said again. “It has to be Brian. He’s the only one who knows me well enough to pull this off. The only one who’d want to.”
Mia didn’t look convinced.
“Brian’s a lot of things,” she said. “Selfish. Immature. A coward. But is he smart enough to plan something this elaborate? I remember him, Lila. He could barely balance his own checkbook.”
“Maybe he had help,” I said. “Maybe he’s working with someone.”
“Maybe,” Mia said. “But we need proof. Hollis is going to want more than just ‘my ex is a jerk.’ We need something concrete. Something that links Brian — or whoever — to Mrs. Whitaker. To the will. To the note in your mailbox.”
She looked at me.
“We need to investigate.”
“Investigate?” I said. “Mia, I’m on house arrest. I can’t even step off my front porch without the police being notified.”
“*You* can’t,” she said. “But I can. And I will. But first — we need to go through everything Mrs. Whitaker ever gave you. Any notes, any letters, anything. Maybe there’s a clue in there somewhere.”
I shook my head.
“There’s nothing. I only met her once. Yesterday. She didn’t give me anything except that twenty dollars I refused to take.”
“Wait,” Mia said. “What about her house? You mowed her lawn. Did you go inside at all? Even for a second?”
I thought back.
“I went to her front door when I was done,” I said. “To tell her I’d finished. She opened the door. We talked for maybe a minute on the porch. I never stepped inside.”
“Her house is probably a crime scene right now,” Mia said. “Crawling with forensics. But if we could just get in there for five minutes… look around… see if there’s anything that doesn’t add up.”
She pulled out her phone and dialed Hollis.
While she talked to him, I sat at the kitchen table, my mind racing.
Someone had been in Mrs. Whitaker’s house every week for three months.
Pretending to be me.
Talking to her.
Earning her trust.
Convincing her to leave me two million dollars.
Then killing her.
And framing me.
What kind of person does that?
What kind of person looks at a pregnant woman who’s already lost everything and decides to use her as a pawn in a murder scheme?
Mia hung up the phone.
“Hollis is calling Sheriff Hale,” she said. “He’s going to try to get us permission to walk through Mrs. Whitaker’s house. Says that as your attorney, he has the right to examine the crime scene for exculpatory evidence. Hale’s being difficult, but Hollis is good. He’ll wear him down.”
An hour later, Hollis called back.
We had permission.
One hour.
Sheriff Hale would be there the whole time.
No touching anything.
Just looking.
Mia helped me put on my shoes — my ankles were so swollen I could barely get them on — and we walked next door.
The police tape was still up, crisscrossing the front porch.
Sheriff Hale was waiting for us by the door.
He looked tired.
“One hour,” he said again, holding up a finger. “Anything you see that you think is important, you tell me. You don’t touch it. You don’t move it. You just point. Understood?”
We nodded.
He unlocked the door and stepped aside.
Mrs. Whitaker’s house smelled like lavender and old books.
It was warm and cozy, the kind of house that feels like a hug the moment you walk in.
Framed photos covered every wall — Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker on their wedding day, on vacation, growing old together.
There were no photos of children.
No grandchildren.
Just the two of them.
For fifty years.
My heart ached looking at them.
“Living room first,” Hale said. “That’s where she was found.”
My stomach tightened.
I didn’t want to see where an old woman had died.
But I had to.
We walked into the living room.
The carpet had been pulled back in one spot.
There were evidence markers on the floor.
Numbered little white tents.
One by the couch.
One by the coffee table.
One by the fireplace.
“She was on the floor by the couch,” Hale said, his voice neutral. “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Looks like she was hit from behind. Never saw it coming.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
Sweet Mrs. Whitaker.
Who’d held my hand and told me I was a good person.
Dead on her own floor.
Alone.
“Lila,” Mia said, squeezing my arm. “Look.”
She was pointing at the mantel above the fireplace.
There, in the center of all the photos of Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker, was a new frame.
A photo of me.
I gasped.
It was me, coming out of the grocery store a few months ago.
I was wearing my pink winter coat, my hand resting on my stomach.
I remembered that day.
It was the first time I’d really started showing.
I’d been so happy and so scared all at once.
But who had taken the photo?
And why was it in Mrs. Whitaker’s house?
“That’s you,” Hale said, stepping closer. “You know when this was taken?”
I shook my head.
“No. I’ve never seen this photo before in my life. I’ve never been inside this house before today. I swear.”
Hale looked at me for a long moment.
Then he pulled out his radio and called for one of the deputies.
“Get this photo to forensics,” he said. “Now.”
We continued through the house.
The kitchen was next.
More evidence markers.
A chair pulled out from the table.
Two teacups in the sink.
“Looks like she had company,” Hale said. “The cups are both Mrs. Whitaker’s. We’re checking for prints.”
Mia was looking through the papers on the fridge.
Old Christmas cards.
A grocery list.
Doctor’s appointments.
And there, stuck to the fridge with a magnet, was a handwritten note.
*Lila coming tomorrow at 2. Need to get more lemon for her tea.*
The handwriting was Mrs. Whitaker’s.
Loopy and elegant.
The date on the magnet was from three months ago.
Three months ago.
I’d never even spoken to Mrs. Whitaker three months ago.
I’d barely known she existed.
But someone had been coming.
Someone she thought was me.
Someone she’d made tea for.
Someone she’d trusted enough to let into her home, again and again.
Someone who’d eventually bashed her head in and left her to die on her living room floor.
We moved to the bedroom.
It was neat and tidy, except for the dresser drawers, which had been pulled open and rifled through.
“Looks like a robbery,” Hale said. “But we know the fifty thousand was withdrawn yesterday. So whoever did this was looking for something else. Or they wanted it to look like a robbery.”
Mia was staring at the nightstand.
On it was a small, leather-bound journal.
Mrs. Whitaker’s diary.
“Can we look at that?” Mia asked.
Hale hesitated, then nodded.
“Carefully,” he said.
Mia picked it up with a pencil, using the eraser end to flip the pages.
She read silently, her face getting more and more serious.
Then she stopped.
“Lila,” she said. “You need to hear this.”
She read aloud, her voice steady.
*“March 12th. The sweet girl next door came again today. Lila. She’s pregnant, you know. Having a little girl. She’s all alone, that poor thing. Her boyfriend left her. Her family doesn’t talk to her. She reminds me so much of myself when I was young. Scared but trying so hard to be brave. Harold would have loved her. I’ve decided — I’m going to take care of her. And her baby. They’ll never want for anything again. Not if I can help it.”*
Mia looked up at me.
The date was three months ago.
The same date as the note on the fridge.
“Whoever was pretending to be you,” Mia said quietly. “They knew everything about you. About Brian leaving. About us not talking. About the baby being a girl. They knew things only someone close to you would know.”
My blood ran cold.
Because there was only one person who knew all those things.
Only one person who’d been there when I found out the baby was a girl.
Only one person who’d known exactly how broken I was when our family fell apart.
May you like
Brian.
It had to be Brian.
