I was having dinner at an upscale restaurant with my daughter and her husband. After they left, the waiter leaned down and whispered something that made me freeze in my seat.

While waiting, I sat in a small café, everything around me feeling muffled, distant. My phone rang. Rachel.

“Mom, are you alright? You didn’t look well last night.” Her voice was syrupy sweet, but now that I knew the truth, I could hear the falseness clanging behind every syllable.

“I’m fine,” I said lightly. “Just tired. I think I’ll rest today.”

“Oh… good. I thought maybe you were sick or something.”

Sick—and disappointing you by still being alive, I thought. Aloud, I told her, “Not at all. Actually, I feel wonderful.”

There was a pause—too long. “And that foundation you mentioned… are you sure you want to move forward with it right now? Maybe you shouldn’t rush into anything.”

There it was. The money. Always the money.

“It’s already underway, Rachel. In fact, I’m about to sign the final paperwork with Nora.”

Another pause, sharper this time. “How much… how much are you investing in it, Mom?”

I closed my eyes, swallowing the ache rising inside me. “Thirty million,” I lied smoothly. “A solid start for the projects I want to fund.”

I heard her inhale sharply. “Thirty million? But, Mom—that’s nearly everything! You can’t do that!”

“I have to go, dear. My taxi’s here.” I hung up before she could argue further.

Now I knew exactly what price tag my daughter had placed on my life: anything between the remaining seventeen million and the entire forty-seven.

Three hours later, the lab called. The report was ready.

The technician’s hand trembled slightly as he handed me the sealed envelope. I opened it inside my car. The findings were blunt and chilling: Propranolol, at a concentration ten times the normal therapeutic dose. Strong enough to cause life-threatening bradycardia, a drop in blood pressure, and possibly cardiac arrest—especially in someone with my conditions: hypertension and a minor heart murmur. Conditions Rachel knew all too well.

A tidy, “natural,” untraceable death.

I drove straight to Nora’s office. She was waiting behind her imposing oak desk. Without a word, I set the report in front of her.

She skimmed it quickly, her expression barely shifting except for the brief tightening of her lips. “Propranolol,” she said at last. “A smart choice. Easy to miss in a standard autopsy. Clever.”

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