“Mum, you’re unwelljust sign here,” murmured my daughter-in-law as she slipped something into my tea, unaware Id been recording it all on a hidden camera for weeks.
“You ought to rest, Evelyn,” crooned Imogen, placing a steaming cup of herbal infusion on the side table. “Your nerves are in tattersyouve said so yourself.”
Her voice was pure honey, but Id long learned to spot the shards of glass behind her eyes.
I sat in my old wingback chair, its frayed upholstery still bearing the imprint of my late husbands hands. I watched as Imogen drew a small, unmarked vial from her dressing gown pocket. A few drops fell into the chamomile blend.
Shed been doing this for a fortnight. Thought I hadnt noticed. Believed me a feeble old woman, losing her wits.
“And these, dear?” I feigned a frail, quavering voice, gesturing to the stack of papers in her hands.
Imogen bestowed upon me that same condescending smilethe one rehearsed for fools.
“Just formalities, Mother. The doctor says your memorys failing. A power of attorneyso James and I can care for you properly. Sign here, and all your worries will vanish.”
She didnt know the porcelain owl on the mantel housed a microcamera, its unblinking lens capturing her every move. A final whim of my husband, an engineer fascinated by spy gadgets.
“Just in case, Evie,” hed said when he installed it. Id laughed then. Now, the owl was my sole ally.
My sonmy Jameshad been married to this woman six months. Six months of him gazing at her like some divine saviour sent to mend his broken heart after the divorce.
He never saw her face darken when she thought me asleep. Never heard her serpent-whisper on the phone: “Soon. The old bats hanging by a thread. The house will be ours.”
I reached out, deliberately letting my hand tremble.
Fingers “accidentally” knocked over the cup.
The hot, bitter liquid spilled across the documents, blurring the ink over the words “full and unrestricted rights to all property.” For a heartbeat, Imogens mask slippedher true face, sharp and vicious, flashing through. Then it was gone.
“Oh, what have I done?” I whimpered, eyes wide at the ruined papers. “My handsthey wont obey”
“Not to worry, Mother,” she said through clenched teeth, jaw tight beneath her flawless complexion. “I have copies.”
That evening, James returned, weary. Imogen met him at the door, twining around him like ivy, murmuring poison into his ear. She was a brilliant actress.
From my room, I caught fragments: “getting worse spilt everything Im so frightened for her, darling.”
When she flitted off to shower, I found James at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples. His favourite shepherds pie sat steaming before himanother of Imogens perfect performances.
Shed studied him. Learned his weaknesses. Built him a world where he felt cherished.
“James, we must talk.”
He lifted tired eyesthe look of a man clinging to his fragile peace.
“Mum, Im exhausted. Can it wait?”
“No. Its about Imogen. These papers”
Then she appeared, silk robe clinging, damp hair scented with expensive perfume.
“Darling, dont listen,” she purred. “The doctor warned usher agitation worsens it.”
I tried to protest, but she played her part flawlessly.
“Mother, we only want to help. Last week, you left the iron on. Nearly burned the house down.”
A brazen lie. I hadnt ironed in months. But James stared at me with such earnest concern such pity. He wanted to believe her. The alternativeadmitting his perfect wife was a viperwas too terrible.
“Mum, is this true?”
“Of course not! Shes poisoning me!”
My voice cracked. Exactly as shed planned. A hysterical, broken old woman.
“Imogens right,” James said softly, pulling me into a hug. “You need rest. Trust us.”
A knife to the gut. My own son chose her illusion.
The next day, they brought a “doctor”a twitchy man smelling of mothballs, hired through a classified ad. He asked nonsensical questions, then declared to James:
“Advanced dementia. Guardianship must be arranged before she harms herself.”
As if I were furniture.
Imogen slid the papers forward once more.
“See, Evelyn? Its settled. Just sign.”
I looked at the pen. At her triumph. At my sons grieving face.
Inside, I seethed. But I nodded weakly. The performance wasnt over.
The point of no return came on Saturday. I stepped into the hall to find cardboard boxes piled with my husbands books.
Imogen hummed as she taped another shut.
“Whats this?” My voice was a whisper.
“Oh, good morning!” She didnt look up. “Clearing out this dust-collecting rubbish. Well donate themfree up space.”
I said nothing. But the game was nearly done.
