Chapter 20 - Playing the Tapes
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The defense attorney leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively.
“If this is simply the dining room camera footage again, Ms. Kim, we have already seen portions of it,” the lawyer stated dismissively. “My clients maintain their innocence regarding intent.”
“It is not the video footage,” Sloane said, a dangerous smile touching her lips.
She tapped the screen and pressed play.
The first crystal-clear audio recording did not come from the dining room. It came from Graham’s private, soundproofed study, captured entirely by a hidden microphone two weeks prior to the dinner.
His desperate, hushed voice suddenly filled the small interrogation room.
“If she talks to her forensic accountant again, Mother, we are completely finished. She will eventually find the offshore transfers. She will find the forged insurance policy. We need this handled permanently before she changes any of her passwords or alerts the bank.”
Constance’s chilling, authoritative voice immediately followed on the tape.
“Then make absolutely certain she eats what I personally prepare for her on Tuesday. She always trusts the food in this house. It’s her fatal flaw.”
Graham went completely, terrifyingly still. The blood drained from his face.
The defense attorney immediately stopped writing on his legal pad, his pen hovering uselessly in the air.
Sloane tapped the screen and pressed play on the second file.
This time, Constance’s voice came through the speaker with horrifying, undeniable clarity, recorded just hours before the dinner party.
“Do not let her reach her purse for the injector, Graham. Hide it. If her airway closes quickly enough, the paramedics will be too late, and the doctors will just call it a tragic, unavoidable allergic accident. The payout will be entirely yours.”
No one in the interrogation room moved a single muscle.
Graham’s mouth opened, but absolutely no sound came out. Constance’s rigid face finally, completely lost its color. Her aristocratic mask shattered into a million unfixable pieces.
Sloane looked directly at the stunned defense attorney.
“Would you like to continue calling this a tragic misunderstanding, counselor?” Sloane asked sweetly.
The attorney slowly, mechanically closed his leather briefcase, the sharp click echoing loudly. He knew he had lost before the trial even began.
Damon Rourke stepped forward and slid a massive, thick binder across the metal table, letting it hit Graham’s folded hands.
“The cyber forensic team successfully found the entire financial trail, Graham,” Damon said, his voice hard. “We have the forged policy amendment. The fraudulent last will and testament. The burner accounts. The endless payments to Ms. Isabelle Crane. The massive offshore gambling debt. And we have the text messages discussing exactly what you two would do with the money after Evelyn died.”
Graham stared blankly at the massive binder. His hands began trembling violently.
Damon opened the binder to a specific, highlighted page and turned it so Graham could read it clearly. It was a printed text message Graham had sent to his mistress, Isabelle, just hours before I arrived for dinner.
“Just be patient, baby. After the funeral next week, we can finally stop hiding. Mom says the insurance policy will clear the bank within sixty days. We'll be rich.”
Graham broke down. He buried his face in his hands and began to cry, loud, pathetic, racking sobs that shook his entire body.
This time, looking at him, I felt absolutely nothing. Not a shred of satisfaction. Not a drop of anger. Not an ounce of pity. I only felt an immense, insurmountable distance between us.
He looked at me through his messy tears, his face contorted in agony.
“I really loved you, Evelyn,” he choked out.
The words fell onto the metal table between us like dead ash.
“You never loved me, Graham,” I replied, my voice steady and cold. “You loved the access I gave you. You loved my successful career when it made you look impressive at your parties. You loved my money when it quietly solved your massive gambling problems. You loved my silence when it protected your fake image. But you never, ever loved me.”
Constance laughed once, a harsh, grating, bitter sound.
“You think you are so incredibly righteous,” Constance spat at me, her eyes filled with venom. “You were never truly one of us. You came into this wealthy family acting like you were morally superior, like you could constantly judge us.”
I looked at her, entirely unfazed by her hatred.
“No, Constance,” I said softly. “I came into this family naively believing that I could actually love you.”
For the very first time in our entire relationship, she looked away from my gaze, unable to hold it.
Sloane stood up, gathering her tablet.
“The district attorney will be officially filing grand jury charges by Friday for attempted murder in the first degree, conspiracy to commit murder, aggravated assault, massive insurance fraud, forgery, felony financial theft, and evidence tampering,” Sloane announced clearly to the room. “There will be absolutely no private settlement. There will be no quiet, swept-under-the-rug divorce. There will be no rewritten, PR-friendly version of what happened here.”
Constance glared at me, her hands gripping the edge of the table.
“You cannot destroy the Wycliffe family,” she hissed.
May you like
I looked up at the recording camera lens blinking in the top corner of the interrogation room. Then, I looked back down at her.
“I did not destroy you, Constance,” I said, turning to walk out the door. “I simply stopped protecting you from the brutal consequences of exactly who you already were.”
