My husband, Ryan Marshall, was having an affair with his boss, and they crashed during a business trip. The doctor’s verdict: even if we saved him, he’d be a vegetable. I swore I would save him—sell the cars, sell the house, whatever it took. But just as I finalized the sales on our condo and car, he was gone. I ended up with the proceeds from the house, the car, a massive life insurance payout, and a hefty corporate compensation package. Oh, and the eighty-plus million in my husband’s secret accounts. I was completely, irrevocably financially free. Then, his parents tracked me down, dragged me to court, and accused me of murder. 1 Inside the police station interrogation room, one detective, Detective Miller, spoke in a conversational tone, as if we were chatting over coffee: “So, how did you two meet? When was that?” The other, Detective Reed, was strictly taking notes, giving me an occasional, deeply scrutinizing look. I rubbed my face. I hadn't slept well in days. From the accident to the ICU, to selling everything to save him, to his funeral—it had all been a blur. A grotesque, exhausting dream. I was still waiting for the earth to snap back into place. I managed a bitter twist of my lips. “We met last year, on April 16th. A blind date.” “That’s very specific. Why do you remember the exact date?” Miller asked. “It’s my son’s birthday.” I knew my expression must have been on the verge of tears. Miller seemed slightly taken aback, but then asked with a joking air, “You’re so young, a graduate from a top school, and you work in the City Planning Division. Why would a woman like you need a blind date?” I’m five-foot-five, and while I wouldn't call myself striking, I’m not ugly. I have a Master’s degree and passed the civil service exam right after graduation. I felt a slight flush of embarrassment. “I’m not originally from here. I went to school here, and the people at the Division have always been kind to me, but…” I paused, feeling awkward, but continued anyway. “Everyone is enthusiastic, especially the older established women.” Miller nodded, understanding. “Ah, yes. The local network. The established social circle loves to play matchmaker for the younger folks.” He then asked, “And when did you get married?” “Last year, July 5th.” “So you knew each other for less than three months and got married? That’s fast. Why the rush?” Miller sounded genuinely shocked now. I gave a small, weary smile. “I was pregnant.” “A shotgun wedding,” he summarized, sounding satisfied. “He was almost three years older than me—already thirty. I worried about having children later. I wanted to keep the baby. We talked it over. Given how things were progressing, we would have married eventually anyway, so we just went ahead and filed the paperwork.” “Do you think you knew him well?” Miller suddenly asked. I was puzzled by the shift in topic, but answered, “He was kind, genuine, and incredibly thoughtful. He was so gentle with me. I—I rarely encountered someone like that, besides—” Thinking of Ryan, I felt the familiar rush of warmth and a lingering blush, but the immediate realization that he was gone slammed the door on that feeling. A wave of profound sadness choked me, making it hard to speak. Miller passed me a glass of water, letting me compose myself. After a moment, he prompted, “Besides what?” “Besides that, his circumstances were exactly what I wanted.” I didn't mince words. “And what circumstances were those?” Reed pressed, his voice flat. “He had a respectable job, he was good-looking, and his salary was significantly higher than mine. Our union was a strong alliance, not a one-sided rescue. To be honest, I leveraged his status, and my quality of life improved several steps.” “Our investigation shows your family is also well-off. They bought a place for you here when you got married, correct?” “Yes. My parents had already set aside money for a condo. When Ryan and I decided to marry, as a sign of my commitment, we bought a place after we got the license, and I put him on the deed for half the property.” 2 “No big wedding, he didn't take a dowry, and my mother said we could hold the ceremony later. He understood. He said since we'd just purchased the condo, my parents shouldn’t worry about the cost of a wedding right away.” “A two-bedroom condo in this area, even a starter, is easily over seven hundred thousand dollars.” I blushed slightly. “It wasn't a full purchase. We took out a mortgage for over five hundred thousand, which I was paying off with my government pension and savings.” “A family that can put down a hundred thousand plus is not ‘simple,’ as you say.” “My parents run a small business. Since I’m not from here, even with my government job, I have no deep roots. Finding an ideal partner who isn't intimidated by my drive, or who doesn't pull me down, is difficult.” “With your qualifications, you had it easier than most.” “I didn't want to compromise myself or lower my standard of living just to get married. I’m an adult. I knew what I wanted.” I was deliberately open about what most people tried to avoid discussing. “So even though he was nearly three years older, you chose him,” Miller summarized. “The age gap was not an obstacle in the slightest. I thought he was the best man I had ever met! Marrying him was my good fortune!” I said, feeling a spike of anger at the underlying skepticism in the detective's tone. “Alright, alright. Just calm down.” I took a long moment to regain my composure. Miller then continued with the standard questions: where I was, what I was doing when Ryan crashed. I answered everything truthfully, then looked at him in weary disbelief. “Why on earth do his parents think I would murder my husband?” Seeing my agitation, Miller gestured for me to lean back and take a deep breath. “Why were you so quick to sell your car and property after the accident?” 3 “I had about thirty thousand dollars in liquid savings. Everything else was tied up in the stock market—frozen assets. The doctors said his situation was critical, and even if he survived, he’d likely be a vegetable. But I didn’t care. I just wanted him alive. As long as he was breathing!” I broke down, shouting the last words. I touched my face, realizing I was crying again. After several minutes, when I was able to speak, I continued, “He was in the ICU. You know the cost—a minimum of ten thousand dollars a day. My money ran out fast. The money I’d borrowed from friends dried up, too. Selling the car and the condo was my last, desperate option.” “You didn’t know where your husband kept his money?” “No. After we married, we kept our finances separate. He handled his, and I handled mine. For household expenses, I covered the mortgage and utilities, and he covered social obligations and the renovations.” “Renovations?” “He paid for the full renovation of the condo and furnished it with all the appliances.” I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable revealing this. Miller nodded and asked, “Given Ryan’s condition, did you ever consider telling your parents or asking his parents for financial help?” “His condition was so touch-and-go; I didn’t want to worry my parents unnecessarily. I planned to tell them once he stabilized. And I was afraid of how his parents would take it, especially his father. My mother-in-law and father-in-law adored Ryan.” “We understand that your mother-in-law is not his biological mother.” “That’s right. She is his stepmother, Brenda Maxwell, but she was genuinely good to him. She actually gifted him the condo we live in now before we even got married.” The other detective, Reed, let out a cynical, quiet laugh. “Gifting him property is good?” I frowned, looking him straight in the eye. “For ordinary people like us, a multimillion-dollar property given to a non-biological son? If that’s not ‘good,’ what is?” He was momentarily stumped. Miller stepped in, smoothing things over with a smile. “You’re very protective of your husband and his family. Did you all stay in regular contact?” “I made a point to call his parents twice a month. Ryan, I assume, also stayed in touch,” I said, suddenly feeling unsure. “What about his biological mother?” I felt a pang of shame. “I never met her. We didn’t have a formal wedding, but our two families had dinner together last year. Ryan told me he hadn’t seen her in years and couldn’t reach her, so I never pushed it.” Then, Miller’s face sobered. “He never told you his mother had passed away?” “What?” I was genuinely shocked. “She was a mine worker. She worked at his stepmother’s coal mine and died in an accident.” “I honestly did not know that. Why would they keep that from me?” The two detectives exchanged a look. Miller then returned to his line of questioning. “Why did you sell all the properties and the car? The three pre-marital properties owned by your husband, too.” “I needed the cash immediately. But you know the real estate market—it’s terrible for sellers right now. I was afraid nothing would move, so I listed everything, hoping one would sell quickly.” “But after one sold and you had the money, why did you let the others go?” 4 “The first one to sell was Ryan’s Midtown penthouse, but the buyer needed time to secure the loan. I was running against the clock, terrified of the delay. Then, the second property—our marital condo—went quickly because I priced it incredibly low but demanded cash. The funds came through fast.” “But by then, Ryan was in critical condition, and our baby was also sick. I was stretched thin, so I delegated the property closings to a colleague, Denise, to help me handle the paperwork.” “By the time I was done managing Ryan’s condition and the baby’s health, the buyers for the other two properties had already wired the money. If I had backed out, I would have faced huge breach of contract fines, and I would have alienated Denise. The buyers, you see, were relatives of the department director. You know… I’m still new to the Division. I couldn’t afford to…” I trailed off. Miller looked at me with a measure of sympathy. Two prime downtown properties, sold at a major discount—a steal for the buyers. If the Director's relatives wanted them, I would have had to sell, ready or not. “So, with all the properties sold, where are you living now?” “The Director’s relatives aren't moving in immediately, so they leased our marital condo back to me.” “And finally, why did you sell your husband’s car?” “I have a wealthy friend, Finn, who runs a custom auto shop. I was trying to sell the car and the condos simultaneously. I dropped the car off at his shop, and he said he’d assess it for me. But then, one of his employees took the car out privately, crashed it, and totaled it. So, Finn bought the wreck from me.” “Crashed it?” “Yes.” “How did the crash happen?” “I wasn’t clear on the details, but the police at the scene would have filed a report, I assume.” Reed noted something in his notebook. “A quick sidebar,” Miller said, leaning forward. “When you were selling the cars and houses, did you ever stop to think about your future?” I stared at him, confused by the question. He continued, “You married him because he ensured your standard of living wouldn't drop, maybe even improved it. But if he became a vegetable and you sold everything, your financial status would tank. Didn’t you consider that consequence?” I offered a bitter smile. “Of course I did. But that was a life. If it were you, would you have chosen not to save him?” 5 Later, Miller said, “We brought you in today because your in-laws suspect you murdered Ryan Marshall, and they’re demanding an investigation.” I felt a surge of indignation. My eyes were probably red again. I took a slow, deliberate breath to calm myself. “If they are going to make that accusation, they need to provide proof. What evidence do they have that I harmed my husband?” I asked, managing a wry, sad smile that was dangerously close to dissolving into tears. “Then why did you have Ryan cremated before your in-laws even arrived?” “Ryan was in the ICU for nearly two weeks. Every day, I had to sign dozens of notifications, telling me he was getting worse,” I said, my hands and body starting to shake involuntarily. “My baby was also sick and wouldn’t let anyone but me hold him—maybe he sensed his father was going to leave us. A four-month-old infant… he lost his dad…” My eyes flooded, and I couldn't stop the tears now. “When the doctor pronounced him dead, I was just…” I rubbed my face hard, searching for the words. “I don't know if you’ve ever felt it, but… the only way to describe it is the absolute despair of the sky falling in.” “After that, I was numb. The funeral home staff came. I don't know what they said. I just knew they promised to handle everything, so I let them take him. And…” “And what?” “When my husband died, he had fallen from the cliff. His body was…” I swallowed a sob. “He was unrecognizable. I didn’t want his parents to see him like that. I was afraid they wouldn't be able to bear it, so I had him cremated quickly.” “Then why did you still call the insurance company for an assessment?” “When we married, Ryan bought us both high-value medical and accidental death policies. He had just paid the premium right before the accident. I was home packing some clothes for the hospital, saw the policies in his drawer, and just thought maybe the medical portion could cover some of the ICU fees. But it was all a lie! All the talk about prompt payouts, immediate coverage—it was all bullshit!” I ground out, my teeth clenched. “But you were paid out, weren’t you? Critical illness, medical, accidental death. Tens of millions of dollars. Especially the accidental death policy—who buys a policy that high? It looks like a classic setup for insurance fraud.” Reed’s voice was low and insinuating. I was stunned by his audacity. Shaking with rage, I lunged at him. “What good is the payout now? I wish we never, ever needed it! I wish my husband were still alive!” Neither detective expected the sudden outburst. Outside, other officers rushed in and pulled me away. I regretted not landing a punch on that hateful detective. He glared at me before being escorted out of the room, replaced by a female officer, Officer Davis, to continue the notes. Once I was calm, Miller returned to the question. “Why did you buy such high-value policies?” “Ryan bought them,” I said, rubbing my temples. “He said that now that we were married and had a child, we had responsibilities and soft spots that single people don't. He didn't want the small family we built to be dragged down or our future living standards destroyed if one or both of us were to get sick or have an accident. He said it was just buying peace of mind, an emergency shield. I thought he made sense. And since he paid for it, I had no reason to object.” 6 As I left the interrogation room, Brenda Maxwell, my mother-in-law, lunged at me, clawing at my face. “You filthy bitch! You killed my son! You murdered him! You’ll pay for this!” I was still exhausted from the lack of sleep and the shock of Ryan’s death; my reaction time was slow. I couldn't dodge her. Her nails raked lines of blood across my cheek and neck. Thankfully, we were in a police station, and the officers quickly pulled her away. In the glass reflection, I saw my hunched, defeated figure. I managed a tired, painful smile. “If you truly believe I harmed Ryan, then bring the evidence,” I said. “Evidence! The evidence is that my son is dead, and you’re alive! You killed him! You think you can get all his money now that he’s gone? Dream on!” Her voice was shrill, and she struggled to get closer to me. I sighed, watching her without knowing what to say. “Arrest her! She killed my son! I want her to pay for it!” she screamed at the police. “We have no evidence that you murdered Ryan Marshall. We cannot arrest her,” the young female officer, Davis, said firmly. “What did you just say?” Brenda shrieked at the officer. “I’m warning you, you better not cover for her, or I have ways of making you all cry!” The faces of the present officers visibly hardened at that threat. They'd seen aggressive people, but never someone so brazen inside the precinct. “The burden of proof is on the accuser, Mrs. Maxwell. Produce the evidence that she killed your son, or we will charge you with filing a false report and disturbing the peace. We have the right to detain you!” a young, enraged officer snapped. “Hmph. Detain me? Do you know who I—” Brenda’s words made my heart skip with sudden excitement, but she cut herself off, rolled her eyes, and said, “Evidence? I have plenty!” As she was leaving, she shot me a venomous look. “You just wait. Everything you swallowed, I will make you cough back up!” I watched her climb into a black, luxury SUV and speed away. The gloomy detective, Reed, suddenly appeared behind me and asked, “What did you swallow that she’s going to make you cough up?” I blinked, then gave a tired, bitter laugh. “She must mean the money from the house sales. I intended to reimburse them for the properties anyway, once everything was settled, but I guess she couldn’t wait…” “You’re suggesting they accused you of murder because they were afraid you wouldn’t return the money from the house sales?” Officer Davis stated the subtext of my words. I sighed, saying nothing, which served as my default answer. I looked up and saw the brooding detective watching me with heavy, intense scrutiny. 7 Exhausted, I returned to the condo. My mother had taken the baby, and I’d given the nanny the week off. I planned to shower and go straight to bed, but I saw the oversized soaking tub in the master bathroom. It was Ryan's exclusive domain. I’d never used it. On a whim, I ran a bath, poured myself a glass of red wine, and slipped in, playing some music. Full immersion, total relaxation. No wonder Ryan enjoyed it so much. It was sublime. I must have drifted off because I woke up to a violent hammering on the door. I assumed it was the Director’s relative coming for an unscheduled inspection. I opened the door, and a fist slammed into my face. A warm gush of blood poured from my nose. Through my blurring vision, I saw a thick, gold chain swinging. I looked up and met the angry, fleshy face of my mother-in-law, Brenda Maxwell. “You little bastard! You had a path to heaven and you ran straight for hell! You dare try to steal my money? You’ve got a death wish!” Before I could react, she backhanded me across the face. My head went blank for a second, my ears ringing violently. “I—I didn’t…” I tried to struggle, but the seven or eight people she’d brought with her pinned me to the floor. “Screw you!” She slapped me again. I tried to explain, but before I could form a word, she hit me twice more. “Selling the car and the house—you thought you’d get everything now that Ryan Marshall is dead? You think you’re that clever, don't you?” “I…” She kicked me twice, then pulled me up by my arm, leaning in close. “The money in his accounts, you moved it, didn’t you? Do you know that was my money? Huh? I’ll give you one chance. Tell me where the cash is, and I’ll consider letting you go. Otherwise… your career, your parents’ safety, think carefully.” She flung me down. My chin hit the marble threshold, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted a mouthful of blood. “What money? I don’t know anything! Don’t you touch my parents—” “Whether or not I touch your parents is up to you, do you understand?” She then turned to her crew and commanded, “Why don’t you boys gently guide her? See if she’ll admit that she murdered him after realizing he was cheating on her for the insurance money.” I lifted my head to look at Brenda Maxwell. She was clearly in a panic. She might have cared about Ryan’s death a little, but not much. She cared about the eighty million dollars in his bank account. 8 Brenda’s thugs dragged me inside, punching and kicking me, trying to extract a confession. I clenched my jaw, refusing to speak. Then, a sudden, frantic pounding started on the front door. I heard one of the men aggressively fling the door open and shout at the person outside: “Who are you? What do you want?” “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” a woman’s indignant voice shouted back. “Your house? Screw you and your house, get out!” “Don’t touch me! How dare you!” A severe male voice joined the argument, and a scuffle broke out. “How dare I? Take another step inside and I’ll beat you, too! Get lost!” “Agh—” the woman shrieked. I was kicked again, the pain forcing me to curl into a fetal position. Outside, the noise was chaotic. I couldn't tell if the couple had left or were still arguing. Then, just as my consciousness started to fade, a voice outside suddenly boomed: “Police! Don’t move!” I managed a faint, bloody smile, and then I passed out. When I woke up, it was noon the next day. The colleague looking after me in the hospital was Denise, the small-time leader whose relatives had bought my condo. She was thrilled to see me awake. “Oh, Anya, thank goodness you’re up! You’ve been asleep for a day and a night—you had me worried sick!” “Th-thank you for looking after me, Denise,” I managed, my jaw screaming in pain when I spoke. “Oh, don’t talk! Look at you. What in the world did you get caught up in? You were selling everything to save their son, and this is how they repay you? They’re savages!”
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