Two weeks after installing the cameras, I’d been at the grocery store when my phone had buzzed with a motion alert. I’d opened the app right there in the produce aisle to see Rebecca in my living room, alone, going through my drawers and photographing documents with her phone. She’d spent nearly twenty minutes in my apartment, touching my belongings, examining my jewelry, acting like she already owned everything.
When confronted later, Elijah had made excuses—Rebecca said I’d given her permission to pick up something I’d borrowed, she was just trying to help organize my papers, I must have forgotten.
The final straw had come two days ago, at a “family lunch” Rebecca had organized. She’d invited her mother and brother, people I’d never met, and spent the entire meal building a case for my incompetence in front of witnesses. How I forgot things. How I got confused about dates. How I’d fallen in the bathroom—a complete fabrication. By dessert, she’d produced legal documents: a voluntary guardianship agreement that would give her and Elijah complete control over my assets.
“If you don’t sign voluntarily, we’ll have to go to court,” Rebecca had said with false sympathy. “We have witnesses who can confirm you’re not capable of managing your own affairs. It’s better this way, Rose. We just want to help you.”
I’d refused to sign. I’d walked out. And I’d called Olivia immediately.
Olivia had moved quickly. She’d arranged for me to undergo a comprehensive psychological evaluation with Dr. Julian Hayes, a forensic psychologist specializing in mental capacity assessments. After three sessions of extensive testing, Dr. Hayes had concluded unequivocally that I was completely competent—no signs of cognitive decline, no confusion, no dementia. He’d written a detailed report and agreed to testify if necessary.
We’d also updated my will with iron-clad provisions ensuring no property could be transferred without my direct authorization before a notary. We’d opened new bank accounts at a different institution and transferred my savings to accounts only I could access. We’d prepared for war.
And then, yesterday, Rebecca had made her most brazen move yet.
The cameras had captured her entering my apartment using what she thought was my spare key. When it hadn’t worked in the old lock, she’d actually jimmied the door open—breaking and entering, captured in high-definition video. Once inside, she’d walked through my home like she owned it, opening cabinets, photographing valuables, even stealing a gold ring my late husband had given me for our twentieth anniversary.
But the most damning footage had come from the bedroom camera, where Rebecca had made a phone call. The audio was crystal clear.
She’d been planning to liquidate my entire life.
But she hadn’t known about the cameras. She hadn’t known that every word, every action, every theft was being recorded and automatically backed up to servers she’d never be able to touch.
And she definitely hadn’t known about the lab analysis.
Because there was one more piece of evidence that would seal Rebecca’s fate. Two weeks ago, following Olivia’s advice, I’d taken a sample of the sugar from my kitchen cabinet—the sugar Rebecca had access to during her previous illegal entries. I’d had it analyzed at a private laboratory.
The results had come back positive for benzodiazepines in concentrations high enough to cause disorientation, dizziness, confusion, and short-term memory problems. Symptoms that could easily be mistaken for age-related cognitive decline.
Rebecca hadn’t just been stealing from me. She’d been poisoning me.
Armed with all this evidence, Olivia had gone to the police three days ago. She’d filed a formal complaint and provided documentation: the psychological evaluation proving my competence, the camera footage of illegal entries and theft, the lab results showing poisoning, the audio recordings of Rebecca’s admissions.
And yesterday, at the wedding reception I’d attended despite everything, Olivia had texted me: “Arrest warrant approved. They’ll move once she makes her next attempt. Be ready.”
So when Leo had called at 5 a.m. to say Rebecca was at my building with movers, I’d known exactly what was happening. This was Rebecca’s endgame—remove my belongings before I could stop her, sell everything, and disappear with the money before the legal system caught up.
But I’d been three steps ahead the entire time.
Now, sitting in my beach house bedroom with my phone in my hand and the ocean breeze cooling my skin, I watched the elevator camera as Rebecca and her three accomplices rode up to the tenth floor. I saw her checking her watch repeatedly, saw her speaking to the men with sharp, impatient gestures. She thought she was minutes away from a fortune. She had no idea she was minutes away from handcuffs.
The elevator doors opened. Rebecca emerged first, moving quickly down the hallway toward my apartment door. The cameras captured her trying her key—the old, useless one I’d left for her to find. It didn’t work. She tried it again, jiggling the handle, her face flushing with frustration.
One of the movers spoke. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his body language suggested discomfort. Rebecca pulled out her phone, called someone—Elijah, probably—and when there was no answer, she shoved the phone back in her pocket.
Then she did something that made my breath catch. She pulled out a thin metal tool and started working on the lock, actually attempting to pick it. One of the movers stepped back, clearly unhappy. I saw him say something, saw Rebecca gesture angrily, saw her pull out what looked like a document and wave it at them.
The door gave way. It opened—I’d left it unlocked, though Rebecca didn’t know that. She’d think she’d successfully broken in. She’d think she was clever.
The living room camera showed her entering, flipping on the lights, the three men following reluctantly. She pointed at my leather sofa, at my antique dining table, at the art on the walls. “That one first,” she said, her voice clear on the audio feed. “And those vases—be careful with those, they’re expensive. Everything valuable comes with us.”
One of the movers hesitated. “Ma’am, do you have paperwork showing you’re the owner?”
Rebecca pulled out the forged guardianship document she’d tried to make me sign. “Right here. My mother-in-law signed everything over to me. She’s not capable of managing her affairs anymore. I’m the legal owner now.”
“This isn’t signed,” the mover said, examining it more closely.
“It is signed,” Rebecca snapped. “That’s her signature right there.”
“Ma’am, I’ve been doing this fifteen years. That’s a forgery.”
Rebecca’s face hardened. “I’ll pay you triple if you just help me get this stuff out quickly. Three thousand cash, right now.”
Two of the movers exchanged glances. Money won out over ethics. They nodded. The third man backed away toward the elevator, wanting no part of it.
They started moving my furniture. Rebecca walked through my apartment like a conqueror surveying newly claimed territory, opening drawers, checking closets, taking photos of everything. She went into my bedroom and opened my jewelry box, pulling out the pearl necklace my late husband had given me for our twentieth anniversary. She held it up to the light, smiled, and slipped it into her pocket.
“I’ll take this too,” she said to no one in particular.
She pulled out her phone and made another call. This time I heard every word clearly through the bedroom camera’s audio.
“I’m inside,” she said. “She’s at the beach house like always, completely clueless. This is going to be quick. No, the tea approach didn’t work—she stopped drinking it—but I put sedatives in her sugar two weeks ago and that should have kept her confused enough. It doesn’t matter now. Once I have everything out of here, Elijah will sign whatever I need. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”
She laughed—a cold, triumphant sound. Continue reading…
