On top lay a letter addressed to me in Evelyn’s elegant cursive.
I picked it up with shaking fingers and began to read:
“Dear James,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve already left this world. I want you to know that I knew everything. I knew from the very first month why you married me. A young, handsome man like you doesn’t fall in love with an old woman like me unless he’s desperate. And you were desperate, weren’t you, darling?”
My throat tightened. She knew.
I watched you, James. I saw how your eyes lingered on the house deeds when you thought I wasn’t looking. I noticed how you checked my pill bottles and asked about my doctor visits. It hurt at first. Deeply. But then I realized something — you were just a scared, broken boy who had never been loved properly.
Beneath the letter were photos. Dozens of them.
Photos of me sleeping on the couch with my mouth open. Photos of me eating her cooking with genuine enjoyment. Photos of me fixing the leaky roof one weekend — something I had only done because she asked so sweetly.
There were also screenshots. Printed messages from my phone that she must have secretly taken. Messages I sent to my old friend Tyler two years ago:
“This old lady is loaded. Just gotta wait it out. House is worth at least 450k. I’ll finally be set.”
I felt sick.
At the bottom of the box was the USB drive. The lawyer quietly slid a laptop toward me.
“ She asked that you watch this alone,” he said.
