Chapter 17

I left the cafe, my mind reeling with the new information. The Florida sun beat down on me as I walked to my car, but I hardly noticed the heat. All I could think about was getting to Angela and Will's house and finding that evidence.

As I drove, Alex called me, and I picked up. "Hey, buddy. What's up?"

"What are you doing, Mom? When are you coming home?"

I sighed, guilt nagging at me again. "In a few days. I promise."

"Don't forget my game on Saturday, Mommy."

"I won't. I'll be there, buddy. I promise."

I ended the call, feeling worse than ever. I hated being away from my family, but I knew I couldn't rest until I found the truth.

Minutes later, I pulled up to Angela and Will's house. The place looked almost eerie in its emptiness. I took a deep breath and got out of the car, my hand instinctively resting on my holster.

The front door was locked, but I found a way in through the sliding door in the back that was left unlocked. As I stepped inside, the silence engulfed me. Being here felt wrong.

I made my way to the home office, my heart pounding. If there were evidence of Will's addiction anywhere, it would be here. I started with the desk drawers, rifling through papers and files. Nothing.

Then I remembered Samantha's words. The pills had been in a drawer. I crouched down, pulling open the bottom drawer. It was empty, save for a few old magazines. I was about to close it when something caught my eye.

A small, almost imperceptible gap in the wood at the back of the drawer. My pulse quickened as I felt along the edge, my fingers searching for a latch or a button. There. The false bottom popped open with a soft click, revealing a small, hidden compartment.

And inside was a plastic baggie filled with white pills. Jackpot.

I pulled out the baggie, my hands shaking slightly. This was it. The evidence that would prove Samantha's story. It showed things were bad between them, yes. But what did it mean? How did it play into her death?

Did Angela take any of the pills, and that's why she lost her balance and fell? Was she addicted, too?

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. I needed to focus on the facts. I slipped the baggie into an evidence bag and continued my search, moving from room to room with a renewed sense of purpose.

In the kitchen, I methodically opened each drawer, not really expecting to find anything. But in the third drawer, tucked beneath a stack of takeout menus, I found something that made my heart skip a beat.

A small, leather-bound notebook.

With trembling fingers, I opened it to the first page. Angela's neat handwriting filled the paper, dated just four months before her death.

"I found the pills again today. I don't know what to do. I'm scared for Will, for our family. I tried to talk to him, but he just got angry. He says he needs them—that they help him cope with the stress of work. But I know they're changing him. He's not the man I married anymore."

I flipped through the pages, and each entry wasmore disturbing than the last.

"He's getting worse. The mood swings, the outbursts. I'm afraid he'll hurt himselfor, worse, someone else. I have to do something. I have to save him from himself."

The final entry was dated a month before Angela's death.

"I can't take it anymore. I'm going to confront him tonight. I'm going to give him a choice. Either it's the pills or us. If he doesn't stop, I'm taking the kids and leaving. I won't let his addiction destroy our family. I just pray he makes the right choice."

I closed the notebook, my heart heavy with the weight of Angela's words. She had been trying to help him, to save their family. And now she was gone.

I slipped the notebook into my bag, along with the pills. I had what I needed. It was time to put the pieces together and find out whathappened that night. If I was being honest, it didn't look good for Will.

As I walked out of the house, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than meets the eye. Angela's notebook had opened up a whole new line of questioning.

I got in my car and sat for a moment, my mind racing. I needed to talk to Willand confront him with this new evidence. But first, I had to make a phone call.

I dialed the number of my trusted medical expert, Dr. Sampson. If anyone could shed light on the effects of those pills, it was him.

As the phone rang, I stared out the window at the empty house, a silent witness to the tragedy that had unfolded within its walls. I just hoped I would find the truth somewhere amidst the secrets and lies. For Angela's sake and the sake of her family, I had to.