Chapter 3 - The Fake Tears
Patrick closed the metal box, placed the board back over the cavity, and slipped the heavy gold signet ring and yellowed newspaper clipping into his inner jacket pocket. He stood up slowly as Clara appeared at the doorway of the sewing room.
She stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway, her arms crossed over her pristine cashmere sweater. She had refreshed her makeup. Not a trace of fear remained in her dark eyes—only cold, sharp arithmetic.
"They let you go fast," Patrick said, his voice flat.
"Of course they did," Clara smiled thinly, stepping into the room. "I'm an upstanding citizen, Patrick. A patron of the local arts, board member of the children's hospital. You, on the other hand, looked like an unhinged maniac screaming accusations without a shred of evidence. The detective was very understanding of my emotional distress."
"You fed her drain cleaner, Clara."
"I did no such thing," she replied smoothly, taking another step forward. "Your mother is an old woman with a failing mind. She was confused. She mixed those chemicals herself in her room. I came downstairs, saw what she was doing, and tried to stop her. That’s the story I gave the police. That’s the story that will stand in court."
"You're a monster," Patrick said softly.
Clara chuckled, a short, brittle sound. "I am a businesswoman protecting our assets. Do you have any idea what would happen to your investment firm if your mother's background came out? If people realized you were raised by a penniless, crazy old woman who stole an infant from an Ohio church thirty years ago?"
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. "Stole?"
"Oh, don't act so innocent!" Clara snapped, her calm veneer cracking. "I found that old journal of hers two months ago when I was looking for her financial papers! Eleanor wasn't just a quiet little church lady. She worked as a maid for the Hawthorne family back in the nineties. When Arthur Hawthorne's wife died giving birth to you, Eleanor took you and ran!"
Patrick felt a strange coldness spreading through his veins. "Why would she do that?"
"Who cares why?!" Clara raised her voice, taking out her phone and tapping the screen. "What matters is who you actually are. You are Arthur Hawthorne’s only legitimate biological heir, Patrick! You aren't just a successful hedge fund manager—you are owed billions! Billions!"
"And you thought poisoning my mother was the way to claim it?"
"She was going to take the secret to her grave!" Clara stepped right up to him, pointing a finger at his chest. "She was planning to sign that Connecticut house over to a trust so you couldn't touch it. She knew if you found out about the Hawthornes, you'd look into your birth, and her criminal past would be exposed! I did what had to be done to save our empire."
"Our empire?" Patrick looked at her with pure disgust. "There is no our anymore, Clara. I'm filing for divorce tomorrow morning."
Clara’s face went deadly still. A slow, chilling smile spread across her red lips.
"Divorce?" she sneered. "Go ahead, try it. Half of everything you own is in my name. The firm, this house, the offshore accounts in the Caymans—I made sure of that when we signed our prenuptial amendments last year. If you walk away now, I’ll take half your money and release the story of your illegal adoption to the press. You’ll be ruined before you can ever claim a cent of the Hawthorne fortune."
"You think money is all I care about?"
"It's all anyone cares about, Patrick. Don't be naive," Clara said, leaning in closer. "Now, here's what's going to happen. You're going to call the hospital and tell them not to pursue criminal charges against me. You're going to let Eleanor fade away quietly in that ICU unit. And then, we are going to hire the best estate lawyers in New York to file our claim for the Hawthorne trust."
Patrick didn't move. He stared into the eyes of the woman he had loved for seven years, realizing he had been sleeping next to a predator.
"You really think you've thought of everything, don't you?" Patrick said quietly.
"I always do," Clara replied, turning to walk out of the room. "Get some sleep, Patrick. You have a long day of mourning ahead of you tomorrow."
As her footsteps faded down the hall, Patrick pulled out his phone. A notification flashed on the screen:
[Server Storage Updated: 1 New Video File Rendered (1080p / Audio Enabled)]
Patrick unlocked the file.
On the high-definition screen, the dining room scene played back in terrifying detail. The camera angle was crystal clear, capturing Clara dragging Eleanor by her hair, gripping her jaw with force, and yelling: "Eat it! You think I'll let you steal from me?"
The audio track picked up every sound—including the distinct clinking of the glass bottle of drain cleaner against the bowl, and Clara’s spiteful laugh as Eleanor choked.
Patrick saved the file to three separate encrypted drives, then forwarded a copy directly to Detective Vance's personal work email with a simple message:
“Check the attached file before you make your final report.”
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Then, he made one more call.
"Hello? Is this the legal team for Hawthorne Enterprises?" Patrick asked, his voice steady as steel as he stood in the dark sewing room. "My name is Patrick. And I have something that belongs to your estate."
