Chapter 6 - The Trap is Set
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times. We had less than two hours.
Warren took my arm and pulled me gently into the dining room, away from my mother, who had slumped into her armchair by the television, muttering insults under her breath and refusing to speak another word to either of us.
"We can't just let him walk in here, Elaine," Warren whispered urgently. "If he sees the floorboards pulled up or realizes we found the lockbox, he'll run. He'll destroy the digital trail, abandon the house, and we won't have enough direct chain-of-custody evidence to pin the attempted murder on him. A good defense attorney would claim the jar was planted by us to frame him."
"Then what do we do?" I asked, tears of raw fury stinging my eyes. "She won't go to the hospital. She thinks the poison is medicine. If she takes another cup tomorrow morning, she might not wake up!"
Warren pulled his phone out and dialed a number. "I have a contact at the State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation—Detective Marcus Ruiz. He handled the fraud case when my uncle's business partner embezzled from the firm. We need an undercover team here before Sterling arrives, but we need the poison tested immediately."
Warren spoke quickly and concisely into the receiver, laying out the timeline, the offshore invoices, the digitalis receipt, and the open jar on the counter. Within four minutes, Ruiz's voice cut through the speaker: *“Keep the crime scene intact. Don't touch the tea jar again without gloves. I'm dispatching a mobile forensic unit and an unmarked squad car to your perimeter. If Sterling arrives at five, act natural. Let him enter the house. If he hands her that tea or makes any incriminating statements, we move in.”*
"What about my mother?" I asked into the phone. "She's already showing signs of poisoning."
*“Paramedics will be parked two blocks down with life-support equipment on standby,”* Ruiz answered. *“As soon as we secure Sterling, we administer the antidote—Digibind. But we need Sterling inside that house under surveillance so he can't dump his phone or his car.”*
I swallowed hard and looked back toward the kitchen.
We quickly put the loose floorboard back in place, securing the brass screws just enough to look undisturbed. Warren carefully placed the mason jar back onto the marble counter, precisely where it had been sitting between the toaster and the kettle.
Every second felt like an eternity. The clock ticked with brutal precision: 4:15... 4:35... 4:50.
Outside, the late afternoon sun began to dip behind the overgrown oak trees lining the driveway. The wind picked up, rattling the loose storm windows of the decaying Victorian house.
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At 4:58, the low, guttural rumble of a rusted muffler echoed from the street. A black sedan with tinted windows turned sharply into the gravel driveway, kicking up a cloud of grey dust.
Sterling was home.
