Chapter 7 - The True Crime
The screen flickered to a black-and-white night-vision recording of the master bedroom.
Elena was lying in the hospice bed, emaciated, hooked up to an oxygen concentrator and an intravenous drip. It was 2:40 AM. Mark was asleep in the spare guest room down the hall, knocked out by exhaustion.
Vanessa Croft entered the room.
She did not look like a compassionate nurse. She moved with predatory, calculated precision. She walked over to Elena’s IV pole, carrying a small, amber vial and a sterile syringe.
On the high-resolution audio, Elena’s weak, raspy voice could be heard.
*“Vanessa... please... the pain... it’s burning in my chest...”*
Vanessa leaned over the dying woman. Her face was illuminated by the soft green glow of the heart monitor.
*“I know it burns, Elena,”* Vanessa whispered, her voice devoid of human warmth. *“That’s the potassium chloride entering your central line. It feels like fire, doesn't it?”*
Elena gasped, her eyes widening in sheer, paralyzing terror. She tried to reach for the emergency call button, but her weak, trembling fingers were batted away by Vanessa’s manicured hand.
*“Don't bother,”* Vanessa whispered, leaning closer until her lips brushed Elena’s ear. *“Mark won't wake up. I gave him enough sedatives to sleep through an earthquake. And don't worry about Lily. I’m going to take such good care of her trust fund. You worked so hard to build that family legacy, Elena. It’s only fair that someone who knows how to spend it gets to enjoy it.”*
On the monitor, Elena began to seize. The cardiac telemetry monitor spiked violently, emitting a rapid, frantic beep.
Vanessa did not panic. She stood there, watching the stopwatch on her wrist. She waited exactly three minutes until Elena’s heart flatlined into a solid, unbroken tone.
Then, with chilling, practiced calm, Vanessa flushed the IV line with normal saline, disposed of the empty syringe in her personal medical bag, disconnected the secondary line, and calmly walked out of the room to wait fifteen minutes before running into Mark’s bedroom to scream that Elena had “passed away peacefully in her sleep.”
In the precinct briefing room, Mark Vance let out a scream that did not sound human.
It was the sound of a man whose soul had been ripped from his ribcage. He hurled himself against the wall, striking the drywall with his forehead until blood trickled down his brow. Officers tackled him to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back as he thrashed and screamed Elena’s name over and over again, choking on his own blood and tears.
Elena hadn’t died of her autoimmune disease.
Her autoimmune disease had been manageable. She had been stable.
Vanessa had murdered her.
She had murdered Elena Vance in cold blood to clear the path to Mark’s home, to Mark’s bed, and to Lily’s multi-million-dollar inheritance.
Detective Miller stood over the thrashing, broken father, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with absolute, uncompromising fury.
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“You didn't just fail your daughter, Mark,” Miller said, the words echoing off the concrete walls. “You married the woman who murdered your wife.”
***
