They sat across from me. Chelsea took off her glasses and looked at me with a mixture of hatred and curiosity.
“Here we are, Elellanena,” she said. “You said you had a proposal.”
“That’s right,” I replied calmly. “But before we get to that, there are people I want you to meet.”
I signaled. Spencer approached our table, followed by Counselor Rodriguez.
Chelsea immediately tensed.
“What is this?” she asked.
“This is a meeting to clarify things once and for all,” I said. “Captain Spencer. Counselor Rodriguez. Please take a seat.”
They sat down. Rob looked confused, glancing from one face to another. Chelsea’s fists were clenched on the table.
“Chelsea Brooks,” I began, “or should I say… Vanessa Jimenez Ruiz. In the last two weeks, we have investigated every aspect of your life—and we have found fascinating things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said coldly.
“I think you do know,” I replied. “But let me refresh your memory.”
I took a tablet from my bag. I turned it on and placed a photo on the table. It was of Richard Miller, Chelsea’s first husband.
“Richard Miller,” I said. “Sixty years old when he died. Sudden heart attack. You inherited $2,800,000.”
“That was years ago,” Chelsea said. “And it was completely legal.”
“Legal, yes,” I said. “But suspicious. Especially when we reviewed his medical records. Richard never had heart problems before marrying you. But during the two years of your marriage, he visited the doctor six times, complaining of dizziness, nausea, weakness—symptoms consistent with digitalis poisoning.”
Rob turned pale.
“Poisoning?” he whispered.
“Digitalis is a substance extracted from foxglove plants,” Spencer explained. “In small, constant doses, it causes symptoms that look like natural heart problems. In sufficiently high doses, it causes a fatal heart attack.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Chelsea said, but her voice trembled slightly. “You don’t have proof of that.”
“You’re right. We don’t,” I said. “Richard was cremated. But we have his daughter, Patricia Miller, who finally agreed to talk to us.”
I signaled again. Linda pressed something on her laptop. From the restaurant speakers, an audio recording began to play. It was the voice of a middle-aged woman.
“I always knew Chelsea killed my father,” Patricia’s voice said. “He was a healthy man until he married her. He started getting sick little by little—loss of appetite, confusion, extreme fatigue. We begged him to get a full checkup, but Chelsea always said he was fine, that it was just stress. One night, he simply dropped dead in the living room. She cried at the funeral, but I saw her counting the money when she sold my father’s house a week later.”
