Chapter 5 - WHAT LIES BENEATH
"Where did you learn how to pick a lock?!" Ethan hissed in a panicked whisper, shining the flashlight beam over my hands.
"Late nights watching true-crime documentaries and practicing on old padlocks when I worked as an assistant at the law firm," I muttered through gritted teeth, manipulating the tension wrench inside the old brass lock mechanism.
CLICK.
The heavy iron bolt slid back with a satisfying metallic thud.
The antique wooden door creaked open, revealing a dark, narrow walk-in pantry that extended beneath the slope of the staircase. Cold air, smelling faintly of damp stone, dried lavender, and a sharp, chemical bitterness, rushed out into the hallway.
"I'll stay in the hall and watch the front door," Ethan said, standing guard. "Ryan said she has thirty minutes left at the salon, but I don't trust it."
"Keep your phone in your hand," I instructed.
I put on a pair of nitrile gloves, clicked my flashlight into high-beam mode, and stepped into the claustrophobic space.
The shelves were lined with neatly organized glass jars—canned peaches, pickled cucumbers, expensive spices, and rows of polished silver serving platters. But as I swept the light toward the lowest shelf near the back wall, hidden behind a stack of folded linen napkins, I saw it.
A heavy, dark amber glass jar with an old-fashioned rubber stopper.
I reached forward and pulled the napkins aside.
The label on the bottle wasn't modern; it looked like an antique apothecary tag, yellowed at the edges. Written in bold, fading black ink were the words: Digitalis Purpurea Concentrate - Tincture. Beneath the text was a small, hand-drawn black skull and crossbones symbol.
Beside the bottle sat a small notebook with a worn black leather cover.
My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. I picked up the leather notebook and opened it.
The handwriting inside belonged undeniably to Vivian Bennett—neat, elegant, cursive script.
I flipped through the pages under the flashlight beam, reading the dates. The entries spanned over eight years.
June 14, 2018 - Ryan's arrogance needs tempering. Added 2 drops of Tincture to his iced tea. Complained of dizziness by evening. Cared for him at my home. He was much more agreeable.
November 2, 2020 - Sophie is becoming too independent, talking about moving away for college. 3 drops in her apple cider. She collapsed at rehearsal. I brought her home to nurse her back to health. She realizes she needs her grandmother.
August 12, 2026 - Owen refused my advice regarding his summer camp. 4 drops in the Sunday broth. Admitted to ER. I brought the specialized tea to maintain his weakness while acting as the comforting matriarch. The family relies on my strength.
I felt cold, visceral horror washing over me. This wasn't just a sudden mental break. Vivian Bennett had been systematically poisoning her children and grandchildren for nearly a decade, using a toxic plant extract to induce physical illness whenever anyone attempted to pull away from her control, establish independence, or disobey her wishes. She was creating crises so she could play the heroic, indispensable savior.
I quickly whipped out my smartphone and photographed every single page of that black notebook, ensuring the dates, hand-written entries, and dosages were crystal clear.
Then, I carefully unstoppered the amber glass bottle, pulled a sterile glass vial from my tote bag, and used a dropper to extract three milliliters of the dark green liquid. I sealed the vial tightly, placed it securely inside a padded pouch in my bag, and returned the amber jar exactly where I had found it.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently against my thigh.
I pulled it out.
Ryan: GET OUT NOW! HER LEXUS JUST PULLED OUT OF THE SALON EARLY! SHE IS HEADING HOME! YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES!
"Claire!" Ethan slammed his hand against the pantry doorframe, his face white with terror. "We have to go! She's coming!"
I grabbed my bag, shoved the leather notebook back onto the shelf behind the napkins, stepped out of the pantry, and closed the antique door.
May you like
CLICK.
I relocked it just as the sound of tires crunching on the wet gravel driveway echoed from outside the front entrance.
