Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
Back at the Ridge Road estate, the front doors had been forced open.
Clara stood in the center of Patrick’s private study, barking orders at two hired movers who were hauling expensive artwork off the walls. On the floor, a commercial locksmith was using a rotary saw to cut through the heavy steel door of Patrick's wall safe.
"Hurry up!" Clara screamed, her voice shrill with frantic energy. "Take the Rolex collection, the bearer bonds, and the art from the master bedroom! If he comes back with the police, I want this house picked clean!"
Her lawyer had warned her earlier that morning that the video evidence Patrick submitted was damning. The bail hearing was set for the following afternoon, and she knew her time was running out. If she was going to flee to a non-extradition country, she needed liquid assets, and she needed them immediately.
"Ma'am, this safe is double-reinforced," the locksmith said, sparks flying from his saw. "It's gonna take another twenty minutes."
"I don't care! Cut faster!" Clara yelled, taking a sip of whiskey straight from a crystal decanter on Patrick’s desk.
"You really haven't changed at all, have you?"
Clara spun around so fast she nearly dropped the crystal glass.
Patrick stood in the doorway, framed by four state police officers and a woman wearing a crisp business suit—District Attorney Helen Vance.
"Patrick!" Clara gasped, forcing a nervous smile onto her pale face. "You... you brought these people into our home? I'm just securing my marital assets! As your legal wife, I have every right to—"
"You have no rights here, Clara," DA Vance interrupted, stepping forward with a sheaf of legal papers. "Clara Hale, I have a warrant for your arrest for attempted first-degree murder, aggravated elder abuse, and intent to commit grand larceny."
"Attempted murder?!" Clara squeaked, taking a step back toward the safe. "That's ridiculous! My lawyer told me that video was illegally recorded! It’s inadmissible in court! You can't use it!"
Patrick took a quiet step into the room, pulling a small remote control from his pocket. He hit a button, and the 85-inch television screen on the study wall flickered to life.
"The video wasn't recorded on a private nanny cam, Clara," Patrick said softly. "You signed the security installation contract yourself three months ago. Clause 12 clearly states that the main security feeds of this estate are monitored by a licensed third-party commercial security firm."
On the massive TV screen, the video played again—not just the dining room footage, but high-definition video from the kitchen two hours prior.
The camera showed Clara standing over the stove, carefully opening a bottle of blue drain cleaner, measuring two tablespoons into Eleanor’s stew bowl, and crushing four crushed heart medication pills into the mixture with the back of a spoon. She was smiling while she did it.
Clara’s jaw dropped. The whiskey glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor.
"That's... that's not me..." she whispered, her eyes darting frantically around the room like a trapped animal. "It's a deepfake! He created it with AI!"
"The security company verified the digital watermark and timestamp under court order an hour ago," DA Vance said coldly. "Officers, take her into custody."
As the officers stepped forward and slapped the cold steel handcuffs onto Clara’s wrists, she completely lost her mind. She began kicking and screaming, her polished hair flying wild across her face.
"Patrick! Please! I loved you!" she shrieked, her voice tearing as they dragged her past him. "I did it for us! So we could have the money! You can't let them take me! I'm your wife!"
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Patrick looked down at her with pure, unadulterated coldness.
"You were never my wife," he said softly. "You were just a parasite who picked the wrong host."
