There is a quote by General James Mattis that every Marine knows by heart and every soldier respects. Be polite. Be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet. He wasn’t talking about murder. He was talking about mindset.
He was talking about being ready to neutralize a threat the moment it presents itself without emotion, without hesitation. As I sat in the dim light of the living room watching Victor sleep, that quote played on a loop in my head. I was done crying. Crying was for victims.
I wasn’t a victim anymore. I was the squad leader of a twoperson unit, and we were about to launch a psychological operation, PCI ops, that would dismantle Brady and Ela’s lives piece by piece. The first step was evidence collection. I stood up and moved the comfortable pillows I’d propped behind Victor. I pulled the warm duvet down, exposing the thin stained fleece blanket he had been found in. It felt cruel, but I needed the scene to look exactly as I’d found it. I needed the jury, whether that was a court of law or the court of public opinion, to see the neglect.
“I’m sorry, Victor,” I whispered.
He opened one eye.
“Do it,” he rasped.
He understood. I took out my phone and snapped a series of photos. I got the close-up of his cracked, bleeding lips. I got the wide shot of the dark room with the thermostat reading 52° in the background. I got the shot of the empty table where his water glass should have been. The photos were gritty, raw, and undeniable.
Step one complete. Step two was human, human intelligence. I waited until 9 more a.m., then walked across the snowy lawn to Mrs. Edith’s house. Edith was 75, retired, and spent her entire day watching the neighborhood from behind her lace curtains. In the suburbs, a nosy neighbor is annoying. In an investigation, she’s a gold mine. She opened the door, clutching her robe.
“Jana, I saw your truck. You’re back early.”
“I am Edith,” I said, putting on my best concern neighbor face.
“I was wondering if you had a minute. I’m trying to piece together a timeline for Victor’s doctors.”
5 minutes later, I was sitting in her kitchen drinking Earl Grey tea. My phone was face down on the table, the voice memo app recording.
“It was terrible, honey,” Edith whispered, leaning in.
“I saw Brady leave on Thursday. He had that that girl with him.”
“The blonde,” I asked casually.
“Yes, the one with the fake eyelashes.”
“Hannah,” I think he called her.
“She was loud, talking about how she needed a tan.”
Edith shook her head, clucking her tongue.
“I saw them loading suitcases into your SUV. And poor Victor, I didn’t see him come out once. I asked Brady if his stepfather was going. And do you know what he said?”
“What did he say, Edith?”
“He said, ‘The old man is fine.’ He prefers the quiet. Then he laughed and slapped that girl on the bottom right there in the driveway.”
I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my expression neutral.
“And did you see anyone come check on Victor after that? Any nurses? Any caretakers?”
“Not a soul,” Edith confirmed.
“The house was dark all weekend. I was worried, but well, I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Edith,” I said, standing up.
I stopped the recording. I had a witness confirming abandonment and the presence of a mistress. Step two complete. When I got back to the house, a silver Lexus was pulling into the driveway. It was Patricia, Victor’s attorney. She was a sharp woman in her 60s with a bob cut that looked like it could slice steel. She walked into the house and the moment the smell of sickness hit her, her professional mask slipped. She looked at Victor, then at me, and her eyes filled with horror.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
“Victor, we don’t have time for pity,” Patricia.
Victor said from the recliner, his voice was stronger today, fueled by pure spite.
“We have work to do.”
Patricia sat on the edge of the sofa, opening her briefcase on her lap. She pulled out a thick file.
“I brought the portfolio documents you asked for,” she said, glancing at me.
“Jana, are you aware of the structure of Victor’s assets?”
“I know he has a pension,” I said.
“And I know Elaine complains that it’s barely enough to cover the bills.”
Patricia exchanged a look with Victor.
“Elaine sees the checking account, which receives the monthly pension deposits. She does not see the trust.”
“The trust?” I asked.
“The Victor Harmon revocable living trust,” Patricia declared.
“Established 15 years ago, it holds the proceeds from the sale of Victor’s primary residents in Virginia, plus a diversified portfolio of blue chip stocks and bonds managed by Vanguard.”
She slid a paper across the coffee table. I looked at the bottom line. Total asset value, $3,245,000. My mouth fell open.
“$3 million? Elaine doesn’t know,” Victor wheezed, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.
“She thinks I’m a washed up bank manager who made bad investments. I let her think that. I wanted to see if she stayed for me or for the money.”
He looked at me, his eyes hard.
“She failed the test. And Brady, Brady failed the moment he was born.”
“If Victor passes,” Patricia said clinically,
“under the current will, 50% goes to Elaine and 50% goes to Brady. The house is also in the trust.”
“Change it,” Victor commanded.
“Strike them out. All of it. I want Jana to be the sole beneficiary and the executive of the estate. And I want half of the liquid assets donated to the Wounded Warrior Project.”
Patricia nodded, her pen flying across the legal pad.
“I can draft the amendment right now. We just need to sign it and have it notorized. I am a notary.”
“Do it,” Victor said.
While Patricia drafted the documents that would strip my husband and mother-in-law of every dime they thought they were entitled to, I moved to the final phase of the operation, the bait. I needed to give them one last chance, not because I thought they would take it, but because I needed to prove to a judge and to myself that they were beyond redemption. I opened my text thread with Brady. The last message was from me a week ago telling him I loved him. It made me sick to look at it. I typed,
“Brady, please answer. It’s Victor. He’s in bad shape. I think he’s dying. He’s asking for you and Elaine. Please, you need to come home now. The ambulance is on the way.”
I lied about the ambulance. I wanted to add urgency. I watched the screen delivered. Then the three little dots appeared. He was typing. My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me, the stupid part, hoped he would say,
“Oh my god, we’re flying back immediately.”
The phone buzzed.
“Babe, chill out. Don’t be dramatic. You know how he is. He has bad days all the time. Mom says he’s just looking for attention. We’re in the middle of a dinner show. We can’t just fly back. He’s tough. He’ll be fine until Monday. Handle it.”
I stared at the screen. Don’t be dramatic. looking for attention. He had just signed his own death warrant. I didn’t reply. Instead, I pressed the side buttons on my iPhone. Click. Screenshot taken. I stared at the image of the conversation. It was the final nail in the coffin.
I had proof of abandonment, proof of medical neglect, proof of financial theft, and now proof of absolute moral bankruptcy. I looked up at Victor. He had just finished signing the papers with a shaky hand. He looked at me exhausted but triumphant.
“Did he bite?” Victor asked.
I held up the phone.
“Hook line and sinker.”
“Good,” Victor whispered, leaning his head back.
“Now we wait.”
Saturday night descended on the house like a shroud. The temperature outside had dropped into the teens, and the wind howled against the siding. But inside, the silence was heavier than the storm. The only sound in the living room was Victor’s breathing. It had changed around 6 mph. It wasn’t the rhythmic, steady breathing of sleep anymore.
It was Cheney Stokes’s respiration, the death rattle. It would start deep and loud, rasping like a saw through wet wood, get faster and shallower, and then stop completely for 10, 15, sometimes 20 seconds of terrifying silence before starting again with a gasp. I sat by his side, holding his hand, counting the seconds during the pauses.
