Has she ever expressed any direct animosity toward your wife? She’s never said anything outright hostile, but there’s been tension. Mom can be very controlling when it comes to family money. She doesn’t like anyone she thinks might be after her fortune.
Each word was a carefully placed knife in my back. Blake was painting a picture of a paranoid, controlling old woman who might poison her daughter-in-law out of jealousy and suspicion. It was brilliant character assassination, and it was coming from my own child.
When Detective Morrison returned to question me further, his entire demeanor had changed. The polite professional courtesy had been replaced by a barely concealed suspicion. Mrs. Princewill, I need to ask you some direct questions.
Have you been concerned about your daughter-in-law’s intentions regarding your family’s wealth? The question was clearly based on what Blake had told him. I chose my words carefully. I think it’s natural for any parent to be protective of their family’s assets, but I’ve never had any specific reason to distress Skyler.
Your son mentioned that you’ve been acting more suspicious lately. Is there any truth to that? I don’t believe I’ve been acting any differently than usual. Blake may be interpreting normal caution as suspicion.
Detective Morrison made more notes, and I could see him building a case in his mind. Wealthy older woman, suspicious of young daughter-in-law, history of controlling behavior around money, opportunity, and means to commit poisoning. Mrs. Princewill, I’m going to need to examine your home as part of this investigation.
Do I have your permission to conduct a search? I knew I could refuse and demand a warrant, but that would only make me look more guilty. Of course. I have nothing to hide.
We’ll also need to examine any computers, phones, or other devices that might contain relevant information. Whatever you need, Detective. As we prepared to leave the hospital, I caught one last glimpse of Skyler through the gap in her room’s curtain.
She was sitting up in bed, no longer appearing to struggle for breath, engaged in quiet conversation with a nurse. When she saw me looking, she offered a small, satisfied smile that made my blood run cold. That smile told me everything I needed to know.
This wasn’t over. In fact, it was just beginning. The search of my home was thorough, professional, and utterly devastating.
Detective Morrison arrived with a full forensics team and a warrant that gave them permission to examine every inch of my property. I watched from my living room as strangers in latex gloves went through my most personal possessions, looking for evidence that I was a would-be murderer. We appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Princewill, Detective Morrison said as his team spread throughout the house.
This should only take a few hours. I sat in my study, the same room where Blake had demanded money just three days earlier, and tried to process how quickly my life had spiraled out of control. Seventy-two hours ago, I’d been a wealthy widow living quietly on her family’s estate.
Now I was the prime suspect in an attempted murder case. The forensics team worked with methodical precision, photographing everything, dusting for fingerprints, and collecting samples from surfaces throughout the house. They paid particular attention to the kitchen, where Schuyler claimed to have prepared the poison coffee.
Ma’am, one of the technicians called from the kitchen. Can you show us where the coffee supplies are kept? I led them to the pantry, where my housekeeper kept various coffee beans, filters, and accessories. Everything looked normal to me, but the technicians treated each item like potential evidence, carefully bagging and labeling anything that might have come into contact with poison.
What about cleaning supplies? Detective Morrison asked. Anything that might contain chemical compounds? I showed them to the utility room, where we kept the usual household chemicals, bleach, ammonia, drain cleaners, and various other toxic substances that could be found in any home. Again, they photographed and sampled everything.
Two hours into the search, I heard one of the technicians call out from the guest bathroom upstairs. Detective Morrison, you need to see this. The excitement in his voice made my stomach clench.
I followed Detective Morrison upstairs, dreading what they might have found. In the guest bathroom, a room I rarely used and hadn’t even entered in weeks, they discovered a small glass vial hidden behind the medicine cabinet. The vial contained traces of a clear liquid, and beside it was a handwritten list that included Schuyler’s name along with what appeared to be dosage calculations.
Mrs. Princewill, Detective Morrison said, holding up an evidence bag containing the vial and list, can you explain these items? I stared at the evidence, feeling the world tilt around me. The handwriting on the list looked remarkably similar to mine, though I had no memory of writing anything like it. The vial was completely unfamiliar.
I’ve never seen either of those items before. I said, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears. This is your handwriting, isn’t it? Detective Morrison pressed, showing me the list more closely.
Looking at it carefully, I had to admit that it did look like my handwriting. The formation of the letters, the particular way I crossed my T’s and dotted my I’s. Whoever had written this had either studied my writing extensively or… Detective Morrison? I said slowly, I need to tell you something important.
While we were at the hospital this morning, Blake left for several hours to get Schuyler’s belongings from their house. He would have had access to my home during that time. Are you suggesting your son planted this evidence? The words sounded insane, even as I said them, but I couldn’t ignore the obvious timeline.
I’m saying that someone with access to my house and knowledge of my handwriting could have placed these items here while we were at the hospital. Detective Morrison studied me carefully. Mrs. Princewill, that’s a very serious accusation to make against your own son.
It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation about opportunity and access. But even as I said it, I could see the doubt in Detective Morrison’s eyes.
The grieving mother caught red-handed with evidence of attempted murder trying to blame her innocent son. It was exactly the kind of desperate deflection that guilty people attempted when cornered. We’ll be taking these items for analysis, Detective Morrison said, sealing the evidence bags, along with samples of your handwriting for comparison.
Of course. Mrs. Princewill, I have to ask, do you own any firearms? The question caught me off guard. Yes, I have a pistol in my bedroom safe.
Why? We’ll need to examine that as well. I led them to my bedroom and opened the safe, revealing a .38 caliber revolver that Charles had insisted I keep for protection. The gun was exactly where I’d left it, and I couldn’t imagine how it related to a poisoning case.
Has this weapon been fired recently? Detective Morrison asked. Not in over a year. I occasionally take it to the shooting range for practice, but I haven’t done that in months.
They bagged the gun anyway, along with the box of ammunition from the safe. I was beginning to understand that in a criminal investigation, everything was potentially relevant until proven otherwise. As the search team finished their work, Detective Morrison pulled me aside for a final conversation.
Mrs. Princewill, based on what we’ve found today, I need to inform you that you’re now considered a person of interest in this case. I strongly recommend that you contact an attorney. Am I under arrest? Not at this time, but I advise you not to leave town without notifying my office.
After the police left, I walked through my home, seeing it with new eyes. Rooms that had been photographed and searched, surfaces that had been dusted for fingerprints, possessions that had been examined for evidence of criminal intent. My sanctuary had been violated, and I felt like a stranger in my own house.
But more than that, I felt the weight of betrayal settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket. Someone had planned this carefully, planting evidence that would point directly to me while creating a perfect cover story. And the only person who’d had the opportunity, access, and knowledge to do it was my own son.
That night, I sat in my study with a glass of wine, staring at the oil derricks visible through my window. The mechanical pumps continued their steady rhythm, extracting wealth from the earth just as they had for three generations. But for the first time since inheriting this empire, I wondered if it would all die with me.
Blake hadn’t just tried to rob me. He tried to murder me and frame me for attempted murder of his wife. The complexity and cruelty of the plan took my breath away.
But he’d made one crucial mistake. He’d underestimated his mother. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t used in five years.
Harrison Cole speaking. Harrison, it’s Colleen. I need your help.
Someone’s trying to destroy me, and I think it might be my own son. Harrison Cole had been my closest colleague during my 25 years as a prosecutor, and more importantly, he was the only person who truly understood how my mind worked. If anyone could help me navigate this nightmare, it would be him, Harrison said, his voice immediately shifting to the sharp focus I remembered from our courtroom days.
Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail. Harrison listened without interruption as I explained the entire sequence of events, Blake’s desperate request for money, the poisoned coffee, the convenient evidence planted in my home, and Blake’s calculated betrayal during the police interviews.
Jesus Christ, Harrison said when I finished. If Blake is behind this, we’re dealing with attempted murder and conspiracy charges. This isn’t just about money anymore.
I know. The question is how to prove it. First things first, you need criminal defense representation immediately.
I’m going to call Marcus Webb. He’s the best defense attorney in the state, and he owes me a favor from the Anderson case. Harrison, there’s something else.
I think Blake might be in serious trouble with dangerous people. The way he demanded that money, the desperation in his voice, this feels like more than just another failed business venture. What kind of trouble? I don’t know yet, but I want to find out.
If Blake is involved with criminals, it might explain why he’s willing to commit murder for inheritance money. Harrison was quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear him thinking. I still have contacts in law enforcement.
Let me make some discrete inquiries about Blake’s recent activities. But in the meantime, you need to assume you’re under surveillance. Everything you do, everywhere you go, everyone you talk to, the police will be watching.
I understand. And be very careful around Blake and Schuyler. If they’re willing to commit murder once, they won’t hesitate to try again.
Marcus Webb arrived at my house that evening carrying a briefcase and the kind of serious expression that defense attorneys wore when their clients were in deep trouble. He was younger than I’d expected, maybe early 50s. But Harrison assured me that his age was offset by his brilliance and his complete lack of ethics when it came to protecting his clients.
Mrs. Prince will, Marcus said, settling into my study like he owned the place. Harrison has briefed me on your situation. You’re in significant legal jeopardy, but the case against you has some interesting weaknesses, such as the timeline for one.
The poisoning appears to have been planned in advance, but you had no way of knowing that Blake and Schuyler would visit you this morning. If you were planning to poison your daughter-in-law, you would need advance notice of her presence. Unless the prosecution argues that I was planning to poison Blake and Schuyler was an unintended victim.
Marcus nodded approvingly. Exactly the kind of thinking that made you a good prosecutor. Yes, they could argue that, but there’s another problem with their case motive.