Chapter 8 - The Raid
The next morning, the toxicology report hit Detective Miller’s desk.
Massive, lethal concentrations of ethylene glycol—antifreeze—were found in my father’s bone marrow and hair follicles. It was a slow, agonizing death, disguised as heart failure.
I rode in the passenger seat of Detective Miller’s unmarked cruiser as a SWAT team descended on the cheap motel.
Cynthia was sipping a cup of black coffee on the balcony of room 114 when the door was kicked off its hinges.
She didn't scream this time. When they marched her out in handcuffs, her perfect makeup was smeared, and her emerald dress was wrinkled. She saw me standing by the cruiser and stopped.
"You think you've won?" she spat, venom dripping from her words. "I was his wife! He loved me!"
I stepped close to her, lowering my voice so only she could hear.
May you like
"He despised you," I whispered. "And now you're going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete box. Much smaller than the one you put my grandfather in."
I turned my back on her as the officers shoved her into the back of the squad car. The theater was finally over.
