My name is Susan Miller, and I thought I had a pretty normal, if uneventful, life. At 65 years old, I was content with my quiet existence in a small house in the suburbs of Dallas with my husband Robert. We had recently retired—Robert from his engineering job and I from teaching history. Our son, Michael, was married to Emily, and together they had built a life that seemed as idyllic as any. We had raised him well, or so we thought.
Michael and Emily had been married for five years. I liked Emily. She was smart, beautiful, and had a good job in a financial consulting firm. She had always seemed a bit distant, but I chalked that up to her demanding career. Life, it seemed, was good.
That was, until last Wednesday.
It was an unusual day when Emily came by to visit me alone. Normally, Michael and Emily would come together on weekends, but today she was by herself. She looked frazzled, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.
“Susan, my phone’s completely shattered,” she said, almost breathless. “I dropped it by accident, and I have an important meeting tomorrow. I really need it fixed today. Michael’s out of town, and I don’t know where to take it.”
I knew just the place. A small repair shop downtown owned by Tom, the son of an old colleague from my teaching days. I had taken my own phone there the week before. It was the perfect solution.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take it to Tom for you.”
“Thank you, Mom,” she said, handing me the phone. “The password is 2800218, our wedding date. I’ll pick it up tonight after work.”
I smiled and nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
I drove over to Tom’s shop, nestled between a pharmacy and a bakery, with a sign that read, “Fast Phone Repair.” Tom was working on a phone when I arrived, and he greeted me warmly.
“Hi, Susan, good to see you,” he said. “What’s going on?”
I explained the situation, and Tom assured me that he could have the phone fixed in a couple of hours. I handed over the phone with the password and left to do some shopping.
When I returned later that afternoon, Tom’s cheerful demeanor had shifted. He was alone, and when he saw me, his face darkened with concern.
“The phone’s fixed, Susan,” he said quietly. “But I need to show you something.”
I frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong with the phone,” he said. “But I need you to come over here.”
Tom motioned for me to come closer. He unlocked Emily’s phone and opened a note in the notes app. My heart stopped when I saw the title of the note—“Plan B.” He turned the screen toward me, and I could barely breathe as I read the words.
It was a series of messages between Michael and Emily.
“Mom’s getting more forgetful,” Michael had written. “This is the perfect time. The doctor’s documenting it just like I asked. No one will suspect anything when it happens.”
Emily’s reply made my stomach turn: “Your parents’ life insurance is worth almost $2 million. Once we sell the house, we’ll have enough to start over somewhere new.”
I felt the blood drain from my face as I read on. They had planned to kill me. But it didn’t stop there. The messages detailed how they would stage it as a domestic accident, how they would manipulate the family doctor to falsify medical records about my supposed memory loss. My hands trembled as I read it, my mind racing with disbelief. But worse was yet to come.
They weren’t just planning to kill me. They had a plan for Robert too. After my death, they intended to kill him as well, but spaced out by a few weeks to avoid suspicion.
Tom could see the panic in my eyes. He locked the shop door and flipped the sign to “closed,” then poured me a glass of water. “You need to go to the police,” he said urgently.
I shook my head, still in shock. “No one will believe me. I’m just an old woman with a story no one will take seriously.”
“You need to gather evidence,” Tom insisted. “Document everything. You can’t go to the police without it.”
I nodded, the reality of what I was reading sinking in. I took my phone and began photographing every message, every detail. Tom carefully restored the phone to its original state, ensuring that there was no trace of tampering.
By the time I left the shop, I felt like I was walking through a nightmare. How could this be happening? How could my son—my only son—be plotting to kill me?
I had to warn Robert, but I had to do it carefully. If Michael and Emily suspected anything, they might act sooner. I drove home, my mind spinning.
When I walked into the house, Robert was sitting on the couch, watching the news. He smiled as I came in.
“Did you get Emily’s phone fixed?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice tight with emotion. “But you need to see something.”
I sat down next to him and opened my phone, showing him the photos I had taken of the messages. I watched his face as he processed what I was telling him. Confusion, disbelief, fear—and then a deep, guttural pain.
“No way,” he whispered. “Michael wouldn’t—”
“I thought the same,” I said, my voice trembling. “But that’s his number, his words. And Emily’s replies. It’s all there, Robert.”
We stared at each other, both of us struggling to understand how our son—our only child—could be capable of this.
Robert took a deep breath. “What do we do now?”
“We gather proof,” I said firmly. “We act like everything is normal. We document everything, and we get ready to go to the police when the time is right.”
Over the next few hours, we checked our bank accounts, changed all our passwords, and canceled any credit cards Michael had access to. We made sure to call the bank and tell them to block any large transfers unless both Robert and I approved them in person.
But Emily wasn’t done with us yet.
That evening, she came by to pick up the phone. She seemed calm, almost too calm. When she saw me, she asked, “Is everything okay? Was the repair okay?”
“It’s perfect,” I said, handing her the phone. “Tom did a great job. Looks brand new.”
Emily smiled, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite place. “Perfect. Thanks, Susan. I really appreciate it.” She checked the phone quickly and then slipped it into her purse. “I’ll pay you back for it.”
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