Chapter 1 - The White Packet
Claire Whitmore saw her husband poison his mother before anyone else at the table noticed his hand move.
One second, the dining room was full of laughter, crystal, and candlelight. The next, Daniel’s fingers slipped from behind his jacket sleeve with a tiny white paper packet pinched between them.
Claire stopped breathing.
Across the long walnut table, Eleanor Whitmore was telling a story about a disastrous charity auction in Palm Beach. Everyone laughed right on cue. Eleanor looked perfect in navy silk and pearls, sixty-eight years old and still able to command a room without raising her voice.
Daniel leaned toward her cream soup.
He shook the packet once.
A thin dusting of white powder disappeared into the bowl.
Claire’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
Daniel glanced at her.
Their eyes met.
And he smiled.
Not warmly. Not nervously.
It was the smallest smile Claire had ever seen, which somehow made it worse.
Eleanor reached for her spoon.
Claire’s pulse slammed against her ribs.
“Don’t…” she whispered.
Too late.
Eleanor swallowed one spoonful.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then Eleanor’s smile vanished.
Her hand flew to her throat. Her other arm struck the wineglass beside her bowl. Red wine spilled across the polished wood like a sudden wound.
“Mom?” Daniel shouted, rising so fast his chair scraped backward.
Guests gasped. Someone screamed for an ambulance.
Eleanor sagged against the chair, clutching her chest.
Claire stared at Daniel.
He looked horrified now. Convincingly horrified.
Then, while every face turned toward Eleanor, Daniel’s hand slipped down beside Claire’s chair.
Claire felt his knuckles brush her purse.
The packet.
He was putting it in her bag.
She grabbed his wrist under the table.
Daniel leaned close enough that his breath touched her ear.
“You saw too much.”
Claire’s stomach turned cold.
“Get away from me.”
His expression never changed.
“You have about thirty seconds before everyone starts asking questions.”
Claire released him and stood.
“What happened?” a guest shouted.
Daniel pointed toward Claire’s purse on the floor.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice shaking perfectly. “But I saw Claire near Mom’s bowl before dinner.”
Claire looked at him in disbelief.
Then Eleanor’s longtime housekeeper, Rosa, screamed from the doorway.
“Mrs. Whitmore’s not breathing!”
And as Daniel rushed around the table pretending to save his mother, Claire realized something much worse than attempted murder.
Her husband had planned for her to take the blame.
The front doors opened.
May you like
Two police officers stepped inside.
Far too quickly.
