The smell of bitter almonds wafting from the cup of hot chocolate instantly chilled my blood. Monica had served it to me with that sweet smile she’d perfected over 30 years, but something in her eyes shone with a coldness I had never seen before. Without her noticing, while pretending to look for sugar in the pantry, I switched my mug with that of David, her husband, who had gone to the restroom and left his hot chocolate untouched on the table.
20 minutes later, the gut-wrenching screams coming from the kitchen confirmed what my maternal instinct had suspected. My own daughter had tried to murder me. David was convulsing on the kitchen floor, foam coming from his mouth, and his eyes completely dilated.
Monica was screaming with a desperation that seemed genuine, kneeling next to her husband of five years, while I dialed 911 with hands that trembled as much from shock as from adrenaline.
At 67 years old, after having single-handedly raised an adopted child who had come into my life traumatised and broken, I never thought I would be witnessing that same child trying to kill me.
«He’s dying!» Monica yelled, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up cheeks. «David, please don’t die. Mom, do something!»
But as I watched her perform her grief, something in my analytical mind, the same mind that had made me a successful accountant for 40 years, began to process details that didn’t fit. Why had Monica insisted so strongly that I drink the hot chocolate right away? Why had she prepared exactly three mugs when she knew David never drank hot chocolate in the afternoon? And why, despite her hysterical screams, was there not a single real tear in her eyes?
The paramedics arrived in eight minutes that felt like eight hours. While they worked frantically to stabilise David, one of them asked me what he had eaten or drunk in the past few hours.
«Hot chocolate,» I replied automatically, but then corrected myself. «Well, he drank hot chocolate. I didn’t get to finish mine.»
«Who prepared the hot chocolate?»
I looked at Monica, who was sobbing theatrically while the paramedics prepared David for transport. «My daughter.»
The paramedic wrote something in his notebook and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. «We’re going to take him to the general hospital. Can you bring any remains of what he drank?»
Monica immediately offered to collect the mugs, but I stopped her with a firmness that surprised me. «I’ll handle it.»
In the kitchen, while Monica accompanied David to the ambulance, I examined the three mugs with completely new eyes. My mug, the one that had originally been for me, was completely empty. David’s mug, the one I had barely touched, had traces of a thick liquid at the bottom. The third mug, the one that was supposedly originally for David, was untouched, with a strange oily layer floating on the surface.
I poured the remnants of the three mugs into separate jars and stashed them in my bag before following Monica to the hospital. As I drove behind the ambulance, my mind raced through 30 years of memories that now seemed tinged with a new and horrible perspective.
Monica had come into my life when I was 37 years old and had lost all hope of being a mother. I had spent a decade trying to get pregnant with my late husband Robert, and after his death in a car accident, I had decided to adopt. The social workers had introduced me to Monica as a five-year-old girl who had suffered severe trauma.
She had witnessed her parents’ death in a fire and needed a patient, loving mother, who could help her heal. I had been that mother. I had dedicated 30 years of my life to loving, protecting, and healing a girl who arrived mute, scared, and seemingly broken.
I had paid for years of psychological therapy. I had changed my career to have a more flexible schedule. I had turned down romantic relationships because Monica needed all my attention. And now, as I followed the ambulance carrying my daughter’s poisoned husband, I realised that maybe I had been protecting a predator for three decades.
At the hospital, while the doctors worked to save David’s life, Monica clung to my arm with that emotional dependence she had shown since childhood. «Mom, what are we going to do if David dies? I can’t live without him.»
But for the first time in 30 years, I didn’t feel the automatic impulse to comfort my daughter. Instead, I observed her with clinical eyes, searching for signs of the truth behind her performance.
«Monica,» I said calmly, «I need to ask you something very important.»
«What, Mom?»
«What did you put in the hot chocolate?»
Her expression changed so quickly that if I had blinked, I would have missed it. For a split second, I saw something cold and calculating cross her face before the mask of pain returned. «What do you mean? I only put in chocolate, milk, and sugar.»
«Monica, the hot chocolate smelled like bitter almonds.»
«Mom, you’re in shock. Sometimes trauma makes us imagine things.»
But I was no longer the naive mother I had been for 30 years. I was a 67-year-old woman who had just realised she had raised a monster.
As I waited for news of David in the emergency room, my mind automatically transported me back to that first night in August of 1993, when Monica arrived at my house in the suburbs of Phoenix. The social worker, Jane Miller, had prepared me to receive a severely traumatised child.
«Hope,» Jane had told me while we reviewed the adoption papers, «Monica is a special girl who needs a lot of patience. She witnessed her parents’ death in a fire and hasn’t spoken a single word since then.»
The girl who walked into my living room that night was small for her five years, with nearly white blonde hair and huge blue eyes that seemed to have seen too much for her age. She wore a pink dress that was too big for her and carried a faded and dirty stuffed rabbit.
«Hello, Monica,» I had said, kneeling down to her level. «I’m Hope. From now on, this is going to be your home.»
Monica looked at me in silence for long minutes, then she walked slowly toward me and placed her small hand on my cheek. It had been such a tender, touching moment that I started crying immediately.
«Mummy,» she had whispered in a small broken voice. «Are you my new mummy?»
During the first few weeks, Monica had been the perfect child. Polite, affectionate, grateful for every little kindness. She started talking more. She started smiling. She started calling me «Mom» with a naturalness that filled my heart.
But she also began to display behaviours that worried me, though at the time I interpreted them as normal symptoms of trauma. I found my cat, Princess, dead in the backyard a week after Monica arrived. The veterinarian said she had been poisoned, probably by eating something toxic someone had left in the yard.
Monica had cried inconsolably during the funeral we held for the cat. Two weeks later, the fish in my aquarium were found floating dead. Monica had suggested that maybe they had eaten something bad and insisted we buy new fish immediately so the house wouldn’t feel so empty.
A month later, my neighbour found her dog poisoned in her own yard. Monica had been playing with the dog that very afternoon. But I had been so in love with the idea of being a mother, so determined to heal this broken child, that I had rationalised every incident.
Animals get accidentally poisoned all the time. Coincidences happen. Monica was just a traumatised child who needed stability and love.
The first time I suspected something was really wrong was when Monica was eight years old. My sister, Carol, had come to visit us for Monica’s birthday, bringing gifts and a lot of enthusiasm to meet her new niece.
«She’s beautiful,» Carol had whispered to me as we watched Monica play in the yard. «But there’s something in her eyes that gives me the chills.»
«What do you mean?»
«It’s like she’s evaluating me, like she’s deciding whether she likes me or not. It’s very… calculating for an eight-year-old.»
That night, Carol became violently ill after dinner. Vomiting, diarrhoea, high fever. We had to take her to the hospital, where the doctors said it was probably food poisoning.
«That’s weird,» Monica had commented in an innocent voice. «We all ate the same thing, but only Aunt Carol got sick.»
Carol never came back to visit. When I asked her why, she would say she was too busy with work. But I knew there was something more.
At age ten, Monica had accidentally pushed a classmate down the school stairs. The girl had broken her leg and had to wear a cast for months.
«It was an accident, Mom,» Monica had insisted with tears in her eyes. «I was just walking and she tripped.»
But the school principal had told me privately that other students had seen Monica deliberately push the girl. At age 12, she had started stealing money from my purse, small amounts at first, then larger amounts. When I confronted her, she denied everything with such absolute conviction that I began to doubt my own sanity.
By age 15, she had started manipulating her teachers into calling me to complain about her behaviour. Then she would convince me that they were being unfair to her because they didn’t understand her childhood trauma.
At age 18, she had married a 40-year-old man who died in a car accident six months later. Monica inherited all his money. At 23, she had married another older man who died of a heart attack two years later. Another substantial inheritance.
And now, at 35 years old, David was fighting for his life after drinking hot chocolate that smelled like bitter almonds.
A doctor approached us in the waiting room. «Family of David Miller?»
«I’m his wife,» Monica said immediately. «How is he?»
«He’s stable but critical. We have detected dangerous levels of cyanide in his system.»
«Cyanide?» Monica feigned shock. «How is that possible?»
The doctor looked directly at me. «Ma’am, did you prepare the food or drink that the patient consumed today?»
«No,» I replied clearly. «My daughter prepared everything.»
For the first time in 30 years, I was not protecting Monica from the consequences of her actions.
Dr Thompson, an older man with a serious expression, led us to a private room to talk about David’s condition. Monica clung to my arm as she had done all her life when facing difficult situations. But this time, her touch caused me nausea instead of maternal tenderness.
«Mrs Miller,» the doctor told Monica, «your husband has been poisoned with cyanide. It’s a very specific substance that is not accidentally found in common foods or drinks.»
«Cyanide?» Monica sobbed with perfect acting. «But how? Where could he have gotten cyanide?»
«That is exactly the question we need to answer. Did your husband have access to industrial chemicals? Did he work in photography, metal cleaning or some laboratory?»
«No, no, nothing like that. David is an accountant. He works in a regular office. I don’t understand how he could have been poisoned.»
The doctor looked at me. «Ma’am, you were present when this happened. Did you notice anything unusual in Mr Miller’s behaviour? Anything he ate or drank that could explain this?»
I looked at Monica, who was watching me with those blue eyes that she had learned to use as weapons of manipulation. For the first time in 30 years, I decided not to protect her.
«Doctor, David drank hot chocolate that my daughter had prepared. The hot chocolate had a strange smell, like bitter almonds.»
«Bitter almonds?» The doctor quickly wrote something down. «That is a classic indicator of cyanide poisoning.»
Monica looked at me with an expression of absolute betrayal. «Ma’am, how can you suggest that I…»
«I’m not suggesting anything, Monica. I’m just answering the doctor’s questions honestly.»
«But ma’am, you were going to drink that hot chocolate too. Why would I do something that would hurt me too?»
It was a clever question, and for a moment I doubted my own suspicions. But then I remembered how she had insisted that I drink mine immediately, while she had left hers cooling without tasting it.
«Ladies,» the doctor intervened, «I am going to have to report this case to the authorities. Cyanide poisoning always requires a police investigation.»
«Police investigation?» Monica visibly paled. «Why? It must have been a terrible accident.»
«Mrs Miller, cyanide does not accidentally appear in homemade hot chocolate. Someone put it there deliberately.»
After the doctor left, Monica and I were left alone in the waiting room. For the first time in my life, my daughter scared me.
«Mom,» she said in a soft voice, but with cold eyes. «I hope you are not thinking of telling the police that I tried to poison David.»
«Monica, did you poison David?»
«Of course not. How can you even ask me that?»
«Because the hot chocolate smelled like cyanide, and you were the one who prepared it.»
«Mom, maybe the cyanide was in the ingredients. Maybe someone else put something in our kitchen. There are many explanations.»
«Like what?»
«Like someone wanting to hurt our family. Like someone breaking into the house and contaminating our food. Like David having enemies we didn’t know about.»
It was the same technique she had used for 30 years. When faced with evidence of wrongdoing, she would create alternative theories, so elaborate, that they made me doubt what I had seen with my own eyes.
«Monica, why did you insist so much that I drink my hot chocolate immediately?»
«Because it was hot and tasted better that way.»
«And why didn’t you drink yours?»
«Because it was too hot for me. I always let it cool down before drinking it.»
«And why did you prepare three mugs when David never drinks hot chocolate in the afternoon?»
For the first time, Monica did not have an immediate answer. She remained silent for long seconds, and I could see her mind furiously working to create an explanation. «I thought maybe this time he would want to try it. I was trying to be hospitable.»
At that moment, the police arrived. Two detectives, an older woman named Detective Clark, and a young man named Detective Johnson.
«Mrs Miller?» Detective Clark asked.
«Yes, that’s me,» Monica replied immediately.
«We need to ask you some questions about what happened this afternoon.»
«Of course, I’ll do everything I can to help.»
«Did you prepare the drink your husband consumed before collapsing?»
«Yes, I made hot chocolate for my mother, for David, and for myself.»
«Where did you get the ingredients?»
«From the local supermarket. Regular chocolate powder, milk, sugar.»
«When did you buy those ingredients?»
«This morning.»
«Did anyone else have access to those ingredients between the time you bought them and when you prepared the hot chocolate?»
«No, they were in my kitchen the whole time.»
«Did anyone else enter your house today?»
«No, it was just Mom, David, and me.»
Detective Johnson addressed me. «Ma’am, did you drink the hot chocolate too?»
«No, I smelled something strange and decided not to drink it.»
«Can you describe that smell?»
«It smelled like bitter almonds.»
The detectives looked at each other with meaningful expressions. «And what happened to your hot chocolate after you decided not to drink it?»
I looked at Monica, who was watching me with an intensity that scared me. «I accidentally switched it with David’s.»
«Accidentally?»
«Yes,» I lied, instinctively protecting my daughter despite my suspicions. «Both mugs were on the table, and I got them confused.»
Monica smiled at me gratefully, but her eyes were still ice cold.
That night, after the detectives finished their initial questions and David was moved to intensive care, Monica insisted that I stay at her house. «Mom, I’m too scared to be alone. What if whoever poisoned David comes back?»
It was the first time in years that Monica had invited me to stay at her house. Usually our visits were brief and always in public places or at my house. I agreed, but not for the reasons she thought.
The house Monica shared with David was impressive. Three storeys, a perfectly maintained lawn, expensive decor she had paid for with the inheritances from her two previous husbands.
Monica settled me in the second floor guest room and went to rest in her master bedroom. I waited until I heard her deep, regular breathing. Then I began my own investigation.
I started in the kitchen, examining every ingredient that had been used for the hot chocolate. The chocolate powder seemed normal, the milk was fresh, the sugar was common sugar. But in the back of the pantry, behind a row of rarely used spices, I found a small unlabelled jar filled with a white crystalline powder.
I smelled it carefully. Bitter almonds. Cyanide.
I put the jar in my bag and continued searching. In the kitchen utensil drawer, hidden under cleaning rags, I found a small syringe of the type diabetics use for insulin.
In David’s study, I checked his financial documents. David was an accountant, so he kept meticulous records of everything. What I found horrified me.
For the last six months, he had been withdrawing large amounts of money from his investment accounts. Thousands of dollars every week, always in cash.
On his personal computer, I found a document that chilled my blood. It was a letter addressed to his brother in Chicago, dated one week earlier.
Dear Mark,
If anything happens to me, I want you to know it wasn’t an accident. Monica is slowly poisoning me. I’ve been feeling strange symptoms for months. Nausea. Weakness. Mental confusion.
At first I thought it was work stress, but I’ve started noticing that I always feel worse after the meals she prepares. I’ve been pretending to eat and then throwing the food away when she’s not looking. I’ve also been taking money out of our accounts because I think she’s planning something big.
I’m afraid to confront her directly because she threatened to hurt her mother if I tried to leave her. Monica is not who she seems to be. I’ve found things in this house that would horrify you. If I die suddenly, please investigate. Don’t let her get away with it again.
Again?
I went up to the third floor, which Monica had converted into her personal study, and where she kept her important documents. The door was locked, but I found the key hidden above the doorframe. What I discovered in that room completely changed my understanding of who my daughter really was.
Boxes and boxes of meticulously organised documents. Death certificates for her two previous husbands. Life insurance documents where she was the sole beneficiary. Correspondence with lawyers about inheritances.
And most disturbing: detailed diaries, documenting exactly how she had murdered both men.
First dose of arsenic in Robert’s morning coffee. Symptoms, mild nausea attributed to stomach flu.
Increased the dose. Robert vomited after breakfast. Suggested he see a doctor, but told him it was probably just work stress.
Robert is losing weight and energy. Doctors can’t find anything specific. I’m giving him vitamins that are mixed with more arsenic.
Robert died this morning. Death certificate says natural causes related to kidney failure. Inheritance, $450,000.
The diaries continued with similar details about the death of her second husband, Frank, who had died of a heart attack two years after being poisoned with digitalis, a heart medication that in high doses causes cardiac arrest.
But what horrified me most was finding a folder labelled, «Mom, Hope, Final Plan.» Inside were copies of my will, where Monica was my sole heir, documents from my bank accounts and investments. How had she gotten that information?
A life insurance policy for $2 million that I didn’t remember signing. A detailed plan to gradually poison me over several months. And a note that said:
Accelerate plan. Mom is starting to suspect. Lethal dose of cyanide in hot chocolate. Blame David if necessary.
My own daughter had been planning to murder me for months.
But there was more. A box marked «pre-adoption» contained documents that completely shattered me.
Monica had not lost her parents in an accidental fire. She had murdered them when she was five years old, using matches to set the house on fire while they slept. The social workers had fabricated the trauma story to make it easier for her to find an adoptive family.
For 30 years, I had been raising and protecting a serial killer.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. I quickly put the most important documents in my bag and ran to my room, arriving just in time to pretend I was sleeping when Monica opened my door.
«Mom, are you okay? I heard noises.»
«I just went to the bathroom, sweetie. Going back to sleep.»
«Rest well, Mom. We’ll go see David early tomorrow.»
After she left, I stayed awake the rest of the night, planning exactly how I was going to ensure Monica paid for all her crimes.
The next day, while Monica was showering, I called Detective Clark from the backyard of the house. «Detective, I need to see you urgently. I have found important evidence about David’s poisoning.»
«What kind of evidence?»
«The poison used to poison David. Documents proving my daughter has killed before. And evidence that she planned to kill me too.»
There was a long silence. «Mrs. Miller, are you sure about what you are telling me?»
«Completely sure. Detective, my daughter is a serial killer.»
«Can you bring that evidence to the station?»
«Yes, but I need to do it without her knowing. Can you send a patrol car so it looks like a routine follow-up visit?»
«Of course. We’ll be there in 20 minutes.»
When Monica came down for breakfast, I had already hidden all the important documents in my car. «Mom, how did you sleep?»
«Well, considering the circumstances… I’ve been thinking about what happened yesterday. I think we should hire a private investigator to look into who poisoned David.»
«Why a private investigator? The police are investigating.»
«Because the police can take months. I want to find the culprit now.»
«Monica, do you have any theories about who might have done this?»
«Well,» she said as she spread jam on her toast with calculated movements, «David has been very stressed about work lately. Maybe someone from his office who is jealous of his success. Or maybe some dissatisfied client.»
«Exactly. Or maybe…» She paused and looked at me with a thoughtful expression. «Maybe someone who knows about your money and wanted to hurt you by using David.»
«What do you mean?»
«Mom, everyone knows you’re wealthy. Your house, your investments, your inheritance from Dad Robert. Maybe someone thought that if something happened to you, David and I would inherit everything. And then they could blackmail or hurt us to get the money.»
The way she was planting seeds of alternative explanations was brilliant. But they didn’t work on me anymore.
«Monica, do you know how much money I have?»
«Not exactly, but I know it’s considerable.»
«How do you know that?»
«Because you’ve worked as an accountant for 40 years. Because Dad Robert left you well-provided for. And because you’ve always been very careful with money.»
«Have you ever seen my bank statements?»
«Of course not. I’m not the type of person who spies on her mother’s finances.»
But I had found copies of all my financial documents in her study the night before.
The doorbell rang. It was Detective Clark with two uniformed officers. «Good morning, ladies. We just came to ask some follow-up questions.»
«Of course,» Monica said immediately. «Is there anything new about David?»
«Your husband is stable, but still critical. We have definitely confirmed that he was poisoned with cyanide. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?»
«We are investigating several possibilities, Mrs Miller,» the detective told me. «Could we speak with you privately for a few minutes?»
«Of course.» We went out to the yard, where I discreetly handed her the bag with the evidence.
«Detective, everything is in there. The jar of cyanide I found in her kitchen, the diaries where she documents how she murdered her two previous husbands, and the plans she had to murder me.»
Detective Clark quickly examined some of the documents. Her expression progressively hardened. «Mrs Miller, this is evidence of multiple homicides. Why didn’t you report these previous deaths?»
«Because I didn’t know they were murders until last night. For 30 years, I thought they were natural deaths.»
«And are you sure these documents are authentic?»
«Detective, I recognize my daughter’s handwriting. These diaries are written in her own hand.»
«We are going to need you to come with us to give a formal statement, and we are going to arrest your daughter immediately.»
«Can I ask you a favor?»
«What?»
«Can you wait until I leave? I don’t want to be present when you arrest her.»
«Why?»
«Because despite everything she has done, she is my daughter. And for 30 years, I loved her with all my heart. I don’t want my last memories of her to be in handcuffs and being taken to jail.»
Detective Clark nodded with understanding. «Go now. We’ll take care of the rest.»
I went back into the house where Monica was washing dishes, softly whistling as if it were a normal day. «Monica, I’m going home. I need some things, and I want to rest in my own bed.»
«Are you sure, Mom? I’d rather you stay here where I can take care of you.»
«I’m sure.»
I hugged her one last time, feeling the strange sensation of embracing a stranger who had my daughter’s face. «I love you, Monica.»
«I love you too, Mom.»
But we both knew it was a lie.
Three days later, I received a call from the hospital. David had woken up and was urgently asking to see me.
When I arrived at his room, he was pale and weak, but his eyes were alert and filled with an intensity I hadn’t seen before.
«Hope,» he said in a hoarse voice. «Thank you for coming.»
«How do you feel?»
«Like I’ve been to hell, but alive, thanks to you.»
«Thanks to me?»
«I know you switched the mugs. Monica told me when she thought I was unconscious.»
My blood froze. «What else did she say?»
«That she had prepared the hot chocolate especially for you. That she had been planning to poison you for months, but that you had ruined everything by switching the mugs.»
«David, since when did you know Monica was trying to poison you?»
«For about six months. I started feeling sick after meals, but only after the meals she prepared. At first I thought it was paranoia, then I started pretending to eat and then secretly throwing the food away.»
«Why didn’t you leave her? Why didn’t you go to the police?»
David looked down, ashamed. «Because she threatened me with you.»
«With me?»
«If I tried to leave her, or if I reported anything to the authorities, she was going to kill you. She said she had ways to poison you that would look like natural death, and that no one would suspect because you’re an older woman.»
«And you believed her?»
«Hope, I found Monica’s diaries about a year ago. I know what she did to her other husbands. I know she’s a killer.»
«Why didn’t you tell me?»
«How do you tell a mother that her daughter is a monster? You love her so much. You have sacrificed so much for her. I thought if I could withstand the gradual poisoning, maybe we would eventually find a way to escape together.»
«David, did you know she planned to kill me?»
«I suspected. Lately, she had been asking questions about your will, about your finances, about whether you had any life insurance.»
«Did she tell you why she wanted to kill me? Money?»
«Monica thinks you’re a millionaire.»
«And am I?»
David looked at me with surprise. «You don’t know? I know I have some savings and investments, but I’ve never calculated the exact total.»
«Hope, you have over $10 million in various accounts and investments.»
The figure took my breath away. «How do you know that?»
«Because Monica asked me to review your finances as a ‘family favour.’ I thought it was to help you with financial planning, but now I realise she was calculating how much money she would inherit when you died.»
«David, there’s something you need to know. Monica has already been arrested.»
His expression changed to pure relief. «Really?»
«The police found evidence that she murdered her two previous husbands, and evidence that she planned to kill me. She’s in jail, without bail.»
David started to cry. «Hope, I’ve been living in terror for months. Every meal could have been my last. Every night I stayed awake wondering if I would wake up in the morning.»
«Why didn’t you run away? Why did you stay in that house with her?»
«Because I love you like the mother I never had. I couldn’t leave her free to hurt you.»
His words moved me deeply. This man had risked his life to protect me from my own daughter.
«David, what exactly did you know about Monica’s other husbands?»
«I knew they had both died young, and that she had inherited all their money, but it wasn’t until I found her diaries that I realised she had murdered them.»
«Did you read the full diaries?»
«Yes, it’s chilling, Hope. She wrote about every dose of poison as if she were writing cooking recipes. Completely unemotional, totally calculated.»
«Was there anything in the diaries about me?»
David nodded sadly. «Pages and pages of plans to kill you. She had been studying your routine for months. Finding the best way to poison you without it seeming suspicious.»
«When was she going to do it?»
«Originally, she had planned to do it gradually over several months, so it would look like natural death. But lately, she had decided to speed up the plan.»
«Why?»
«Because she thought you were starting to suspect her. She wrote that you had been asking questions about her finances, and that you had mentioned wanting to know more about her previous husbands.»
«I never asked those questions.»
«I know. I think Monica was becoming paranoid. When serial killers have been active for a long time, they often start seeing threats where there are none.»
«David, there’s something else I need to ask you.»
«What?»
«Do you think Monica really loved me, even a little?»
David looked at me with deep compassion. «Hope, based on what I read in her diaries, I don’t think Monica is capable of loving anyone. She saw you as a source of money and protection, but not as a mother.»
«What did she write about me specifically?»
«She wrote about you as if you were a long-term investment project. She calculated how much money you had spent on her over the years, how much your inheritance was worth, how long she would have to wait to inherit everything.»
«Did she ever write anything affectionate about me?»
David looked down. «No, Hope. I’m sorry.»
For the first time since this nightmare began, I started crying for real. Not tears of shock or fear, but tears of genuine grief for the daughter I thought I had, but who had never really existed.
A week after Monica’s arrest, Detective Clark summoned me to the police station for a meeting that would completely change my understanding of the situation.
«Mrs. Miller,» she told me as I sat down in her office. «We have been investigating your daughter’s past based on the evidence you provided. What we have discovered is worse than any of us imagined.»
«What have you found?»
«Monica hasn’t just killed her two husbands. We have identified at least six more victims over the past 30 years.»
The room started spinning. Six more.
Three college boyfriends who died in strange accidents. A boss who died of a heart attack after not giving her a promotion she wanted. An elderly neighbor who died of ‘natural causes’ after complaining about her cats making too much noise. And a co-worker who died in a car accident after reporting that Monica had been stealing money from the company.
«How is it possible that no one noticed the pattern?»
«Because Monica is extremely intelligent. She spaced out the murders by years, used different methods each time, and always had solid alibis. Furthermore, she moved frequently, so there were never multiple deaths in the same police jurisdiction.»
«Detective, is there anything about… About when she was a child?»
Detective Clark opened another file. «That’s where the situation gets truly disturbing. We’ve been investigating the fire that supposedly killed her biological parents.»
«And?»
«It wasn’t an accident, and Monica wasn’t five years old when it happened.»
«What do you mean?»
«Monica was eight years old when she murdered her biological parents. The social workers falsified her age to make her more adoptable, and invented the trauma story to explain her psychopathic behavior.»
«Did the social workers know she had killed her parents?»
«At least one of them knew. Jane Miller, the woman who oversaw her adoption, left notes in the file indicating that she knew Monica had deliberately started the fire.»
«Why did they allow me to adopt her if they knew she was dangerous?»
«Because Jane Miller received a bribe of $50,000 to falsify the documents and find Monica a family.»
«A bribe from whom?»
«That’s the most chilling part. The bribe came from Monica’s biological parents’ inheritance. Even at eight years old, she was smart enough to bribe government officials to get what she wanted.»
I remained silent for several minutes, processing the magnitude of what I had just heard. «Detective, does this mean that for 30 years I have been raising a serial killer?»
«Yes, it means you were a victim of an elaborate deception that began when Monica was a child. You had no way of knowing the truth.»
«But how did I not realize? How could I have been so blind?»
«Mrs. Miller, psychopaths like Monica are masters of manipulation. They study their victims for years. They learn exactly which buttons to push to get what they want. You wanted to be a mother more than anything in the world, and Monica exploited that desire.»
«Are there more victims that we don’t know about?»
«We are investigating. Based on her behavioral patterns, we estimate that she may have killed up to 20 people during her life.»
«20 people?»
«Monica started killing at age eight, and she never stopped. It’s one of the most extreme cases of psychopathy we’ve seen.»
«Detective, what’s going to happen to her now?»
«She is going to be tried for multiple counts of first-degree murder. With the evidence we have, she will likely receive life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.»
«Do you want to see her?»
The question surprised me. «Can I?»
«Yes, but I must warn you that Monica is constantly asking to see you. She says she needs to explain something important.»
«Something important?»
«We don’t know what, but Mrs. Miller, if you decide to visit her, be very careful. Even in jail, Monica is still extremely manipulative.»
«Do you think I should see her?»
«That decision is completely yours, but if you decide to do so, I recommend you mentally prepare yourself to hear things that can be very disturbing.»
«What kind of things?»
«Monica has been talking to the jail psychologists. She has made some statements about you that… that are not pleasant.»
«What kind of statements?»
«She says she never really loved you. She says you only adopted her to feel better about yourself after not being able to have biological children. She says you used her to fill the void in your life.»
«And do you believe that’s true?»
«Mrs. Miller, based on everything I have observed about you during this investigation, I believe you genuinely loved that child with all your heart. The fact that she couldn’t reciprocate that love is not your fault.»
«Detective, I want to see her.»
«Are you sure?»
«Yes. After 30 years, I think I deserve to hear the truth from her mouth.»
The county jail was a grey, depressing building that smelled of disinfectant and hopelessness. When I entered the visiting room, Monica was already sitting at a metal table, wearing the orange inmate uniform.
She looked small and vulnerable, exactly like the five-year-old girl who had arrived at my house 30 years ago.
«Mom,» she said in a soft voice when I sat across from her. «Thank you for coming. Mom, there are so many things I need to explain to you.»
«I’m listening.»
«First, I want you to know that I am very sorry for everything that happened. I never wanted to hurt David, and I definitely never wanted to hurt you.»
It was the same sweet, manipulative voice she had used for 30 years. But now I knew exactly what it was.
«Monica, the police told me you have killed at least eight people.»
«Mom, that’s not true. Some of those deaths were accidents, and others were… Well, they were bad people who deserved it.»
«Bad people like your husbands.»
«Robert used to hit me, Mom. I never told you because I didn’t want to worry you, but he hit me every night. What I did to him was self-defence.»
«And Frank?»
«Frank was stealing money from elderly clients at his job. He was a thief who ruined the lives of innocent people.»
«And the neighbour who complained about your cats? How do you know about that?»
«The police told me. Why did you kill him?»
«Mom, he threatened to poison my cats. I couldn’t allow that.»
«Monica, did you kill your biological parents when you were eight years old?»
Her expression changed immediately. The mask of vulnerability slipped for a moment, revealing something cold and calculating underneath. «Who told you that?»
«The police investigated the fire. They know it wasn’t an accident.»
«Mom, they don’t understand what really happened.»
«Then you explain it to me.»
«My biological parents were monsters. They did things to me, terrible things a child should never experience.»
«What kind of things?»
«Things I can’t repeat. Things that damaged me so much that I had to defend myself. By killing them, it was the only way to escape.»
«Monica, why did you lie about your age?»
«I didn’t lie. The social workers got confused with the documents.»
«Monica, I know you bribed Jane Miller to falsify your file.»
«Bribe? Mom, I was eight years old. How was I going to bribe someone?»
«With your parents’ inheritance money.»
«Mom, I think the police are lying to you to turn you against me.»
«Monica, did you ever really love me?»
The question came out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was the question I had been avoiding asking because I was afraid of the answer.
Monica looked at me in silence for long seconds. I could see her mind working, calculating what answer to give me. «Of course I loved you, Mom. You are the only mother I’ve ever known.»
«That’s not a real answer.»
«What do you mean?»
«I asked if you loved me, not if you considered me your mother.»
«Mom, why are you asking me that?»
«Because I found your diaries. I read what you wrote about me. I know you saw me as a source of money, not as a mother.»
The mask slipped completely. The expression on Monica’s face changed to something I had never seen before. Pure coldness and absolute contempt.
«Do you want to know the truth?» she said in an icy voice.
«Yes.»
«No. I never loved you. Not for a second in thirty years.»
Her words hit me like physical slaps. But I continued. «Why?»
«Because you’re pathetic. You’re a desperate woman who was so hungry to be a mother that you adopted a child without doing any real research into her past.»
«I trusted the social workers.»
«You trusted because you wanted to trust. Because it was easier to believe a pretty lie than to investigate the ugly truth. Monica, do you know how easy it was to manipulate you?»
«From the first day I came to your house, I knew exactly what kind of woman you were. Lonely, needy, desperate for love. All I had to do was act like the damaged child who needed healing. And you gave me everything I wanted.»
«Everything you wanted? Protection? Money? A perfect alibi? Who is going to suspect that a woman adopted by a respectable accountant is a killer?»
«So you never felt anything for me?»
«I felt gratitude for your usefulness. I felt satisfaction at how easy it was to control you. But love? No, Mom. Psychopaths don’t love.»
«So you admit you’re a psychopath.»
«I admit I’m superior. I admit I’m smarter than normal people like you.»
«Superior for killing innocent people?»
«Superior for doing what is necessary to get what I want.»
«And what did you want from me?»
«Your money, obviously. But I also wanted to see how long I could keep up the deception. It became an interesting game.»
«A game?»
«A psychological experiment. How long can I make an intelligent woman believe I am her loving daughter while I plan to kill her? And the answer? 30 years. You’re stupider than I thought.»
At that moment, I finally understood completely who Monica really was. She was not my daughter. She had never been my daughter. She was a predator who had used my maternal love as a weapon against me for three decades.
«You know what, Monica?»
«What?»
«Thank you.»
«Thank you for what?»
«For finally showing me your true face. For 30 years, I blamed myself for not being a good enough mother for you. Now I know the problem was never me.»
«The problem is still you, Mom. The problem is that you are weak.»
«No, Monica. The problem is you. You are a monster who feeds on the goodness of other people.»
I stood up to leave.
«Mom, wait.»
«What?»
«I still need you.»
«For what?»
«To testify at my trial. To tell the judge that I had a difficult childhood. That I deserve compassion.»
«No.»
«No?»
«I am going to testify at your trial, Monica. But I’m going to testify about what you really are.»
Her face contorted with pure rage. «If you do that, you’ll regret it.»
«Are you threatening me?»
«I am promising you that I will find a way to hurt you, even from jail.»
«Monica, for 30 years I was afraid of disappointing you. Now you should be afraid of me.»
I left the jail feeling as if a 30-year weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Three months later, Monica’s trial began in the county courthouse. As I had promised, I testified against her, telling exactly what I had discovered about her crimes and her true nature.
