The phone screen blurs in my shaking hands. Three words glow white against black.
“Don’t go. Run now.”
I’m standing in Hartley and Sun’s Jewelry on Michigan Avenue, and the world has just tilted sideways. Rain hammers the storefront windows, turning Chicago into streaks of gray and yellow. The saleswoman across the counter is still smiling, still waiting for me to hand over my credit card for the platinum cuff links I picked out for my son’s wedding. Eight hundred seventy-two dollars, nearly half my monthly Social Security check.
The phone buzzes again. Same unknown number. My thumb hovers over the screen.
“Ma’am?” The saleswoman’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Are you all right?”
I’m not all right. I haven’t been all right since I woke up this morning with a knot in my stomach that wouldn’t loosen. Since I had that dream about Dashel as a little boy, crying in our old kitchen because someone took his favorite toy truck. In the dream, I kept asking him who took it, and he just kept pointing at me.
Hi, viewers. Kindly tell us where you’re watching from and what time it is. My name is Delphine Peton. I’m 68 years old, and I’ve spent the last three decades of my life doing everything right. I raised my son alone after my husband died. I worked at the Chicago Public Library for 27 years. I saved what I could, downsized when I needed to. I never asked anyone for anything I couldn’t earn myself.
And right now, someone I don’t know is telling me to run.
I pay for the cuff links. My fingers fumble the credit card twice before it finally slides into the reader. The saleswoman wraps the box in cream-colored paper, her hands moving with practiced efficiency, and I watch like I’m seeing it happen to someone else—someone whose son is getting married tomorrow, someone who still believes that family means something.
The wrapped box feels heavy in my hands. Or maybe that’s just my heart.
I walk out into the rain without opening my umbrella. Water soaks through my coat immediately, cold and shocking, but I barely feel it. People rush past with briefcases and shopping bags, holding newspapers over their heads. A taxi honks. Someone yells about the Cubs game. Chicago keeps moving like nothing’s wrong.
I stop on the sidewalk and call the number back. It rings once, twice. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I think it might crack them.
“Mrs. Peton?”
A woman’s voice. Young, scared.
“Who is this?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
“My name is Rian. I work at the Sterling Hotel.”
She pauses, and I hear her breathing, quick and shallow.
“I’m a server there. I shouldn’t be calling you. I could lose my job. But I couldn’t just—I couldn’t just stand by.”
The Sterling Hotel. Where Dashel is marrying Cresa tomorrow. Where we toured the Grand Ballroom six months ago—Cresa clapping her hands together like a child on Christmas morning when she saw the crystal chandeliers. Where Dashel smiled that smile I’ve seen more and more lately, the one that never quite reaches his eyes.
A bus roars past, splashing gutter water onto my shoes.
“Stand by for what?” I ask.
“I heard them talking,” Rian says, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. “Your son and his fiancée. They were in the kitchen yesterday during their final walkthrough. I was setting up for another event, and they didn’t see me behind the serving station.”
My hand finds a parking meter. I grip it hard, feeling the cold metal beneath my palm.
“What did they say?”
“Mrs. Peton, I don’t know how to…” She stops. I hear something in the background—voices, what sounds like kitchen noise. “Cresa said, ‘After tomorrow, we won’t have to pretend anymore. Once we get the money, I’m gone.’”
The sidewalk seems to shift beneath my feet. A woman bumps into me, mutters an apology, keeps walking.
“And your son,” Rian continues, her voice shaking now. “He laughed. He said, ‘She has no idea. The life insurance alone is worth two million.’”
I stop breathing.
Life insurance.
My life insurance. The policy I took out 15 years ago when Harold died, when I was terrified of leaving Dashel alone in the world with nothing. The one that makes him the sole beneficiary. The one I mentioned to him last month when we were going over wedding expenses, trying to reassure him that even though I couldn’t contribute much now, he’d be taken care of when I was gone.
When I was gone.
The rain keeps falling. Someone’s car alarm starts wailing three blocks away.
“There’s more,” Rian says, her voice cracking. “Cresa asked him how he was going to do it. He said the honeymoon would be perfect. A hiking accident in Colorado. You’re going with them, right?”
My knees almost give out.
Three weeks ago, Dashel called me, said they wanted me to come to Colorado with them for the first few days of their honeymoon. They’d rented a cabin near Rocky Mountain National Park.
“You never take vacations, Mom,” he’d said, his voice warm and concerned. “You’ll love it. The altitude is amazing. We can do some easy trails together.”
I’d thought it was strange. Who invites their mother on their honeymoon? But I’d been so touched. I’d actually cried on the phone, told him how much it meant to me.
“You’re my mom. Of course I want you there,” he’d said.
Now those words feel like poison in my veins.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper into the phone.
“Because my grandmother raised me alone,” Rian says, and her voice breaks completely now. “She worked three jobs to put me through school. She’s 72, and I call her every single day. When I heard them laughing about it, planning it like it was nothing…” She stops, takes a breath. “I kept thinking about my grandma. I couldn’t stay quiet.”
Thunder rumbles somewhere over Lake Michigan.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“Don’t go to that wedding,” Rian says. “Don’t go anywhere with them. Please, Mrs. Peton. Please.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there holding my phone, watching rain run down the screen. The wrapped gift box is getting soaked under my arm. Inside it, platinum cuff links engraved with my son’s initials.
The son who wants me dead.
My phone buzzes. A text from Dashel.
“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, Mom. Love you.”
I start laughing. It comes out harsh and broken, echoing off the buildings. A man walking past gives me a wide berth, pulling his daughter closer. I must look crazy, standing in the rain, laughing at my phone. Mascara probably running down my face, but I can’t stop.
Love you. Love you. Love you.
The parking garage is two blocks away. I walk there slowly, carefully, like I’m made of glass. Inside my car, I sit with the engine running, heat blasting, watching water stream down the windshield. The gift box sits on the passenger seat, cream-colored paper already water-stained. Eight hundred seventy-two dollars I couldn’t afford for a son who’s planning to murder me.
I think about Dashel as a baby, how he used to grab my finger with his whole tiny hand, squeezing like he’d never let go. I think about teaching him to ride a bike on our street in Lincoln Park before we had to sell the house—running behind him with my hand on his back, him yelling, “Don’t let go, Mama. Don’t let go.” I think about every birthday cake I baked from scratch because we couldn’t afford bakery cakes. Every school play where I sat in the front row. Every fever I sat up all night monitoring. Every nightmare I chased away.
Then I think about him in a hotel kitchen, laughing about killing me.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Dashel.
“Cresa wants to know what color dress you’re wearing tomorrow for photos.”
For photos. So they can show everyone what a loving family they were before the tragic accident.
I text back with steady fingers.
“Light blue. The one I showed you last week.”
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
“Perfect. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
Big day.
He has no idea.
I drive home to my apartment in Rogers Park. One bedroom, a kitchenette barely big enough to turn around in. A window with a view of a brick wall. This is what’s left after a lifetime of doing everything right. After working 27 years at the library. After selling the family home to pay Harold’s medical bills. After scraping by on Social Security, clipping coupons, buying store brands, wearing the same coat for six winters.
This is what my son thinks is worth killing me for.
I moved here two years ago. Dashel helped me carry boxes up three flights of stairs. He complained about his back the whole time, asked if I’d remembered to update my insurance paperwork with my new address. I thought he was being responsible, making sure everything was in order for me.
Now I know he was making sure the check would clear.
Inside, I lock the door. Then I check it twice more. Then I go to every window in the apartment and make sure they’re locked, too. The one in the bedroom doesn’t close all the way. It never has. I shove a wooden spoon from the kitchen into the gap.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the people upstairs walking around. Hear traffic outside. Hear my own breathing. Too fast. Too shallow.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A 68-year-old woman with wet gray hair plastered to her head. Mascara running down her cheeks. Eyes that look shell-shocked. I look like someone’s grandmother. Someone who bakes cookies and sends birthday cards with twenty-dollar bills tucked inside.
Someone easy to kill.
I change into dry clothes. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to button my cardigan. In the kitchen, I make coffee. It tastes like metal, but I drink it anyway. Then I sit at my small kitchen table—the one I bought at a garage sale when I moved in—and I make a list.
I’ve always been a list maker. It’s how I think, how I process. The refrigerator is covered with them. Grocery lists, to-do lists, bills to pay, library books to return, even though I haven’t worked there in three years.
This list is different.
At the top, I write: Stay alive.
Under that: Get proof.
Then: Who can I trust?
I stare at the last question for a long time.
Who can I trust? Not the police. What would I tell them? My son might be planning to kill me for insurance money based on a phone call from a stranger. They’d pat my hand and suggest I talk to a therapist.
“Grief does strange things to people, ma’am. Paranoia is common in elderly individuals.”
Not my friends. Most of them are dead or in nursing homes. The ones left wouldn’t believe me. Dashel is so charming, so successful. He manages a tech startup in the Loop. Wears expensive suits. Plays golf with lawyers and doctors. I’m just his retired mother who lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Rogers Park.
Not family. Dashel is all I have left. Was all I have left.
My phone buzzes. I actually flinch, sloshing coffee onto the table. Another text from Dashel.
“Did you pick up your dress from the dry cleaner’s? Want to make sure you have everything ready.”
Making sure I’ll be dressed nicely for my last public appearance.
I text back.
“All set. Thank you, honey.”
Honey.
The word makes me want to throw my phone across the room.
I stay up all night at that table. The coffee pot empties. The sky outside my brick-wall view slowly shifts from black to deep blue to pale gray. I research life insurance fraud on my old laptop. I read about murder-for-hire cases. I look up private investigators, but their fees start at three hundred an hour. I have $417 in my checking account until next month’s Social Security check.
By the time the sun rises, I have something. Not a complete plan, but the beginning of one.
First, I need to hear Rian’s story again. Record it if possible. Get details, times, dates, exact words.
Second, I need to find out if there are security cameras in that hotel kitchen—if Rian can get me footage somehow.
Third, I need to cancel the Colorado trip without making Dashel suspicious. But how? If I suddenly back out, will they panic? Move up their timeline? Come to my apartment with a bottle of wine to celebrate the wedding, slip something into my glass?
I get up and check the door lock again. Still locked. Still not enough to make me feel safe.
The cream-colored gift box sits on my counter where I left it last night. I pick it up, feeling the weight of it. I open it. The platinum cuff links gleam against white satin.
“Dashel Harold Peton.” His initials. His father’s name as his middle name.
I remember the day he was born. How Harold held him and cried.
“We made this,” he’d whispered. “We made this perfect thing.”
I close the box, walk to the trash can, and drop it in. The sound it makes hitting the bottom is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard in 24 hours.
My phone rings. Not a text this time—a call. Dashel’s smiling face fills the screen. A photo from last Christmas, when we had dinner at his condo in the Gold Coast. He’d made prime rib. We’d drunk expensive wine. He’d given me a cashmere scarf that I later found still had the clearance tag tucked inside.
I don’t answer. I let it go to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, the voicemail notification pops up. I press play.
“Hey, Mom. Just wanted to check in. You sounded a little off in your texts last night. Everything okay? Call me back when you get this. Love you.”
He sounds concerned. Caring. Like a good son.
I play it again. Listen to his voice. Try to hear anything underneath the words, any hint of what he’s really thinking.
“Love you.”
There it is again. Those two words. How many times has he said them to me over the years? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
How long has he been lying?
I call the Sterling Hotel. A receptionist answers on the second ring, her voice professionally cheerful.
“Sterling Hotel, how may I direct your call?”
“Yes, I need to speak with someone in catering, please. I have questions about the Peton–Larson wedding tomorrow.”
“Of course. One moment.”
Smooth jazz plays while I wait. I stare at my reflection in the dark laptop screen. I look calmer than I feel. My hands have stopped shaking. My voice was steady. Maybe I’m better at lying than I thought.
“This is Derek in catering. How can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Delphine Peton. I’m the mother of the groom for tomorrow’s wedding.” The words taste wrong in my mouth. “I wanted to confirm a few details about the reception setup.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Peton. What can I clarify for you?”
“I was wondering… is there any way I could stop by this afternoon? Just to see the ballroom one more time before tomorrow. I want to make sure I know where everything is.” I pause. “I get anxious at big events. It helps me to visualize things ahead of time.”
A small lie. But not really. I am anxious—just not about table arrangements.
“Of course. We have another event this evening, but you’re welcome to stop by between two and four today. I’ll leave your name at the front desk.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
I hang up and immediately call Rian’s number. It rings four times. Five. Six. No answer. No voicemail.
I try again. Same thing. My stomach twists. What if she’s already been fired? What if someone saw her making the call? What if—
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
“Can’t talk at work. Can meet at 3 p.m. Lula Cafe on North Kenzi. Will be wearing green apron.”
Relief floods through me so fast I have to sit down. I text back.
“I’ll be there.”
Three dots appear. Then:
“Be careful. They’re not who you think they are.”
I almost laugh.
I know exactly who they are now.
That’s the problem.
The cafe Rian chose is across town, nowhere near the hotel. Smart. I take the Red Line, then transfer to a bus, watching over my shoulder the whole time, checking if anyone’s following me. An old woman in a raincoat on public transit, clutching her purse.
Invisible.
That’s what I’ve become. That’s what they were counting on.
Lula Cafe is small, crowded with the lunch rush. I spot Rian immediately—early twenties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, green apron with the cafe’s logo. She’s wiping down a table in the corner, but her eyes keep darting to the door. She sees me, gives a tiny nod.
I order coffee I don’t want from a barista with purple hair and too many ear piercings, then sit at Rian’s table. She finishes wiping it down, even though it’s already clean.
“My break is in five minutes,” she says quietly, not looking at me. “Wait here.”
She disappears into the back. I sit there holding my coffee cup with both hands, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. Outside the window, Chicago moves past—people with normal problems, normal families, normal sons who don’t want them dead.
Rian comes back wearing a jacket over her apron and sits across from me. Up close, she looks younger. Tired. Scared.
“Thank you for meeting me,” I say. “I’ve been sick about this since yesterday.”
“I kept thinking, what if I’m wrong? What if I misheard?” Her voice is low, urgent. “But I didn’t mishear. I know what I heard.”
“Tell me again. Everything, exactly as you remember it.”
She does. And it’s worse than the phone call. She remembers more details now—how Cresa was laughing when she said it. How Dashel had his arm around her waist. How they were looking at photos on his phone, photos of hiking trails in Colorado, pointing out which ones would be perfect because they were steep, rocky, far from help.
“He said altitude sickness would make it even more believable,” Rian whispers. “Because you’re older. People would just think…”
She stops. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You saved my life.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“I keep thinking… what kind of person does that to their own mother?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“Is there any way to get security footage from the kitchen?” I ask. “Any proof?”
She shakes her head.
“The prep kitchen doesn’t have cameras. Privacy thing for the staff. They were standing right where there’s a blind spot.”
Of course they were.
“But I wrote down everything right after,” she says. “Dates, times, exact words. I can give that to you.”
“That helps. Thank you.” I pause. “Did you tell anyone else about this?”
“No. Just you.” She glances around the cafe. “But my manager asked me yesterday why I requested to work the Peton wedding when I wasn’t originally scheduled. I told him I needed the extra hours, but he seemed suspicious.”
My chest tightens.
“Be careful. Don’t do anything that might—”
“I’m already careful.” She leans forward. “Mrs. Peton, what are you going to do?”
Good question.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I’m not going to Colorado.”
“Are you going to the wedding?”
I think about this. If I don’t show up tomorrow, Dashel will know something’s wrong. He’ll panic. And a panicking murderer is dangerous.
But if I do show up…
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going to the wedding.”
Rian looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am.
“Just promise me you won’t eat or drink anything they give you,” she says. “Anything. Not champagne, not cake, nothing.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Would they try something at the wedding itself? Too public. Too risky. But then again… a mother who suddenly feels ill at her son’s wedding, goes home, dies in her sleep from what looks like a heart attack…
“I promise,” I say.
We talk for another twenty minutes. She gives me her written account, three pages in careful handwriting. I fold them and put them in my purse. When she has to go back to work, she squeezes my hand.
“My grandma always says, ‘God protects fools and old ladies,’” she says. “I don’t know which category you fall into, but I’m praying for you anyway.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get.”
I watch her go back to work, tying her apron, smiling at customers. Twenty-three years old and braver than most people I know.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Dashel.
“Mom, you never called me back. Starting to worry. Are you okay?”
I step outside to call him, steel myself, force my voice to sound normal. He answers on the first ring.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, honey. I’m sorry. I was at the store and had my phone on silent. You know how I am.”
“You sure you’re okay? You seem stressed.”
“It’s just pre-wedding jitters,” I say. And it’s not even a lie. “You know me. I want everything to be perfect for you.”
“It will be perfect.” His voice softens. “You know what would make it even better?”
My heart stops.
“What?”
“If you’d consider saying something at the reception. Just a few words. A toast to me and Cresa. Would you do that?”
A toast at the reception, where everyone will be watching. Where I’ll have to smile and lie and pretend everything is fine.
“I’d be honored,” I hear myself say.
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.” A pause. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
The Sterling Hotel looks different when I arrive at 2:30. Less magical. The marble floors are just floors. The crystal chandeliers are just expensive light fixtures. This is where my son is getting married tomorrow. This is where he’ll stand up in front of everyone we know and promise to love and cherish Cresa.
And on Monday, they’ll try to kill me on a hiking trail in Colorado.
Derek from catering meets me in the lobby. He’s younger than he sounded on the phone, maybe thirty, with a tablet tucked under his arm.
“Mrs. Peton. Great to meet you in person. Come on, I’ll show you the setup.”
He walks me through the ballroom, shows me the seating chart, the head table, where the cake will be, where the band will set up. I nod and smile and ask questions I don’t care about. All I’m really doing is looking for Rian.
I don’t see her.
“Is the full staff working tomorrow?” I ask casually.
“Most of them. We brought in some extra servers for an event this size. About eighty guests, right?”
“That sounds right.”
“We’ll have eight servers on the floor, plus bartenders and kitchen staff. Your son and his fiancée wanted everything perfect.”
Perfect.
That word again.
Derek walks me back to the lobby. I thank him. Tell him how beautiful everything looks. Play the role of excited mother of the groom.
When he’s gone, I sit in one of the lobby chairs and pretend to check my phone. Really, I’m watching. Waiting.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
Then I see her—Rian coming out of a service door near the elevators. She has a bus tub full of dishes. When she sees me, her eyes widen slightly. She gives the smallest shake of her head. A warning.
I look away immediately. Get up. Walk toward the exit. In my peripheral vision, I see why she warned me—Cresa coming out of the same service door, talking to someone who must be the wedding planner. Her blonde hair is perfect. Her outfit probably costs more than my monthly rent. She’s laughing at something, her hand on the wedding planner’s arm.
I keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t run. Just an old woman leaving a hotel.
By the time I reach the street, my hands are shaking again.
She was there. At the hotel. Checking on things for tomorrow, probably. What if she’d seen me talking to Derek? What if she’d seen me watching Rian? What if she already knows?
I take the long way home. I change trains twice. Walk an extra six blocks. By the time I climb the three flights to my apartment, my legs are shaking and my chest hurts.
Inside, I lock the door, check the windows, shove the wooden spoon back into the gap. Then I sit at my kitchen table and open my laptop.
I need a lawyer. I need to change my beneficiary. I need to do it tonight.
But it’s Friday evening. Most offices are closed.
I find one firm that does online consultations. I fill out their form. Credit card for a hundred-dollar consultation fee that I can’t afford—but I’m not dead yet, so I guess I can afford it. While I wait for a call back, I draft a new beneficiary form for my life insurance. I remove Dashel’s name. It feels like cutting out part of my heart with a dull knife, but I do it anyway.
Who do I put instead? I have no other family, no close friends left. I think of Rian, a stranger who risked her job to save my life. But that’s not fair to her. She didn’t sign up for this.
I leave it blank for now. The lawyer can help me figure it out.
My phone rings. A Chicago number I don’t recognize.
“Mrs. Peton?” A woman’s voice. “This is Janet Kowalski from Kowalski Legal Services. I got your consultation request.”
I explain everything. The phone call from Rian, the insurance policy, the Colorado trip, the wedding tomorrow. It all sounds insane when I say it out loud, like a paranoid fantasy.
But Janet doesn’t treat it that way.
“Do you have any proof?” she asks. “Recordings, texts, anything in writing?”
“I have a written statement from the server who overheard them, and I have texts from my son about the trip—though nothing incriminating.”
“That’s a start, but it’s not enough for a restraining order or criminal charges. No actual crime has been committed yet.”
“So I have to wait until they try to kill me?”
“No.” Her voice is firm. “You protect yourself first. Don’t go on that trip. Don’t go anywhere alone with them. And we change that beneficiary immediately.”
Relief washes over me. Someone believes me. Someone is helping.
“Can we do it tonight?” I ask.
“We can start the paperwork. I’ll email you forms. You’ll need to print them, sign them, and get them notarized. There’s a 24-hour UPS store on Clark Street that has a notary. Can you do that tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And, Mrs. Peton… be very careful at that wedding tomorrow.”
“I promise I will be.”
The forms arrive in my email ten minutes later. I don’t have a printer, but the library does.
Except the library closes at six on Fridays, and it’s already 5:30.
I grab my coat and run.
I make it to the library at 5:57, breathless, my chest aching. The same library where I worked for 27 years. Maria is at the front desk, one of the younger librarians. Her face lights up when she sees me.
“Delphine, what are you doing here?”
“I need to print something urgently before you close.”
She sees something in my face and doesn’t ask questions. She just waves me toward the public computers.
I print the forms with shaking hands. Seven pages. Maria doesn’t charge me for the printing.
“Everything okay?” she asks when I’m leaving.
“Getting there,” I tell her.
The UPS store is still open. The notary is a tired-looking man in his fifties who barely glances at me while I sign. He stamps the papers, charges me forty dollars. I have the forms in an envelope addressed to my insurance company fifteen minutes later.
“Do you want to mail this tonight?” the clerk asks.
“Yes. Priority with tracking.”
“That’ll be eighteen dollars.”
I hand over the money and watch him put the envelope in the outgoing mail bin.
When I step back out onto Clark Street, it’s dark, cold, starting to rain again. But I feel lighter than I have in 24 hours.
The beneficiary has changed. Even if they kill me tomorrow, Dashel gets nothing.
My phone buzzes. I almost don’t look, but I do. Email notification.
Flight confirmation.
My hands go numb. I open it. It’s from United Airlines. A confirmation for a flight to Denver tomorrow, Saturday, 6:00 p.m. But the wedding doesn’t end until five. We weren’t supposed to leave for Colorado until Monday.
I read it again. See the name on the reservation: Delphine Peton.
He changed my ticket without asking, without telling me.
They’re moving up the timeline.
My phone rings. Dashel’s face on the screen. I answer because I have to. Because if I don’t, he’ll know.
“Hey, Mom.” His voice is excited. “Did you get the email?”
“I just saw it.”
“I know it’s last-minute, but Cresa and I were thinking, why wait until Monday? Let’s fly out tomorrow night. Have the whole week in Colorado. The cabin’s ready. The weather’s supposed to be perfect. What do you say?”
What do I say?
I say, I know you’re trying to kill me. I say, I changed my beneficiary two hours ago. I say, I know everything.
But I don’t say any of that.
“That sounds wonderful,” I hear myself say instead. “I’ll pack tonight.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at 4:30 tomorrow, right after the reception ends. We can go straight to O’Hare. Can’t wait. Love you, Mom. See you tomorrow at the wedding.”
He hangs up.
I stand there on Clark Street in the rain and I realize something.
I can’t just run. I can’t just hide.
I have to face this.
But I can’t face it alone.
I call Marcus. He lives in the apartment below mine. Retired police officer. Keeps to himself. Always nods hello when we pass in the hallway. I’ve brought him cookies twice. He’s brought me mail that got delivered to his box by mistake.
“Hello?”
“Marcus, this is Delphine from upstairs. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need help. And I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think someone is trying to kill me.”
There’s a long pause.
“You home right now?” he asks.
“I’m on Clark Street near the UPS store.”
“Get home. I’ll come up.”
He hangs up.
I have never moved faster. The Red Line, the bus, the six blocks from the stop to my building, up three flights of stairs. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get my key in the lock.
Marcus knocks on my door five minutes after I get home. When I open it, he’s standing there in jeans and a Bears sweatshirt, his gray hair sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes are sharp, though.
Cop eyes.
“Tell me everything,” he says.
So I do. He listens without interrupting. When I’m done, he sits back in my kitchen chair and exhales slowly.
“You could call the police,” he says. “They won’t do anything. No crime has been committed.”
“No crime they can prove,” he corrects. “But attempted murder conspiracy is still conspiracy. Problem is, it’s your word against theirs right now. The server statement helps, but it’s secondhand.”
“So what do I do?”
“You need proof. Real proof. Either a recording of them discussing it, or you need to catch them in the act somehow.”
He studies me.
“You still planning to go to this wedding?”
“I don’t think I have a choice. If I don’t show, they’ll panic.”
“Then we use that.” He leans forward. “You go to the wedding. You wear a wire. You get your son talking. See if he’ll admit something.”
“Where would I get a wire?”
He smiles slightly.
“I’ve got one from my cop days. Did some undercover work back in the ’90s. Still works. I check it every now and then.”
Hope flares in my chest.
“You’d help me?”
“Lady, I’ve lived below you for two years. You’re the only person in this building who’s ever been kind to me.” His face hardens. “Plus, I hate people who hurt their parents. Saw too much of that on the job.”
We stay up until midnight planning.
Marcus shows me the recording device. It’s smaller than I expected. Fits in the pocket of my dress. He tests it. The audio is clear.
“Tomorrow you wear this,” he says. “You go to the wedding. You try to get him alone. Get him talking about Colorado, about the money, anything.”
“What if he won’t talk?”
“Then we go to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“You don’t go to Colorado. You disappear for a while, stay with someone, and we take what we have to the police and a lawyer and hope it’s enough.”
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than dying on a hiking trail.
Marcus leaves at 12:30. I try to sleep but can’t. I just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the city sounds outside my window.
Tomorrow I’m going to my son’s wedding. Tomorrow I’m going to find out if he’ll really go through with it.
The light blue dress hangs on my closet door. I picked it out three months ago with Cresa, who’d insisted on coming shopping with me.
“You need something modern, Delphine,” she’d said, steering me away from the conservative styles I usually wore. “Something that photographs well.”
Now I know why she cared so much about how I’d look in photos. My last public appearance needed to be memorable.
I get up at 5:00 a.m., make coffee, shower, stand in front of the mirror, and practice smiling. Practice looking like a happy mother. The recording device is in my bra, pressed against my ribs. Marcus tested it again this morning. Works perfectly.
“Remember,” he’d said at my door at 6:00 a.m., “try to get him alone, away from the crowd. Maybe when everyone’s dancing, maybe when he’s having a drink. People talk when they think they’re safe.”
My phone is full of texts from Dashel. Reminders about timing. About being ready at 4:30. About having my bags packed for Colorado.
I’ve packed a bag.
But I’m not going anywhere.
The wedding starts at two. I arrive at 1:30, and the Sterling Hotel is transformed. White flowers everywhere. Ribbon on the chairs. String quartet playing in the corner.
It’s beautiful.
It’s a lie.
Cresa’s family is there, dozens of them, loud and laughing. My side is nearly empty—just me, three of Dashel’s college friends, and my former supervisor from the library, whom I invited out of obligation.
Dashel sees me from across the room. His face lights up. He weaves through the crowd and pulls me into a hug.
“Mom, you look beautiful.”
The recording device digs into my ribs.
“Thank you, sweetheart. You look so handsome.”
And he does. His tuxedo fits perfectly. His hair is styled. He looks like a man who’s about to start a wonderful new life.
Not like a man planning murder.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Nervous?”
“A little. You?”
“Not nervous. Excited.” He squeezes my hands. “This is the start of everything, Mom. Everything is about to change.”
His eyes are bright, genuine. For a second, I almost doubt everything. Almost think I made a mistake. This is my son. My baby. The boy I raised. He can’t be planning to kill me.
Then Cresa appears at his elbow, and I see the look they exchange—quick, knowing.
She kisses my cheek. Her perfume is overwhelming.
“That dress is perfect,” she says. “I knew that color would be stunning on you.”
“Thank you for helping me pick it out,” I say.
“Of course. We’re family now.” She links her arm through Dashel’s. “Well… we will be in about thirty minutes.”
They drift away to greet other guests.
I find my seat in the front row. Alone.
The ceremony is short. Dashel and Cresa wrote their own vows. He promises to love her forever, to protect her, to build a life with her. She promises the same. When the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride,” everyone applauds. I clap along, smile, play my part.
But the recording device is running, capturing everything.
The reception is in the ballroom. I spot Rian immediately. She’s serving champagne at the far end, dressed in the hotel’s uniform. When she sees me, her eyes widen. I give the smallest nod.
I’m okay. So far.
Dashel and Cresa make their rounds, thanking everyone for coming. When they get to me, Dashel pulls me up from my seat.
“Time for that toast, Mom.”
My heart stops.
“Now? Before dinner?”
“Perfect timing.” He presses a champagne flute into my hand and taps his fork against his own glass to get everyone’s attention. “Everyone, my mother would like to say a few words.”
Eighty faces turn toward me.
I stand there holding champagne I won’t drink and think, This is it. This is my chance.
“I’m not good at speeches,” I start. My voice shakes. I let it. Let them think I’m just a nervous mother. “But I wanted to say how proud I am. How grateful I am to be here today.”
I look at Dashel. He’s smiling at me, encouraging.
“Dashel, you’ve always been my whole world. Ever since the day you were born, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve sacrificed has been for you.”
His smile falters slightly.
“I’ve given you everything I have. Everything I am. And I thought…” I pause. “I thought that meant something.”
The room is too quiet now.
“But I’ve learned something recently. Love isn’t about what you give. It’s about what someone does with that gift.” I look directly at Dashel. “So my advice to you both is this: remember what matters. Remember who’s been there for you. And remember…”
I let the silence stretch.
“Actions have consequences. Always.”
I raise my glass. I don’t drink. I set it down.
The applause is confused, uncertain. Dashel’s face is pale.
Dinner is served. I push food around my plate. I don’t eat anything. I don’t drink anything. Rian brings me water in a sealed bottle, and I’m grateful.
At seven, the dancing starts. I watch from my table, alone. Watch Dashel and Cresa’s first dance. Watch them laugh and twirl and kiss.
Then Dashel breaks away from the crowd and heads in my direction.
This is it.
“Mom, can we talk outside?” he asks.
I nod. “Of course.”
I follow him out of the ballroom, through the lobby, to a small outdoor terrace. It’s dark out here. Private. The noise from the reception is muffled.
He turns to face me, and his expression is different now. Harder.
“What was that toast about?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play games. ‘Actions have consequences’ in front of everyone?”
“I meant what I said. Actions do have consequences.”
“You’re upset about something.”
“Should I be upset?”
“I don’t know, Mom. You tell me.” His voice has an edge now. “You’ve been acting weird for two days. Short texts. That strange toast. What’s going on?”
This is my moment. The recorder is running. I need him to admit something.
“I’m just wondering,” I say slowly, “what happens after Colorado?”
He goes very still.
“What do you mean?”
“After the honeymoon. After I come back. What happens then?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Don’t you?” We stare at each other. In the dim light, he looks like a stranger. “If this is about money—”
“Is it about money?” I cut in. “This whole thing. The wedding. The invitation to Colorado. Is it about money?”
His jaw clenches.
“I don’t know what you think you know,” he says. “I know about the life insurance.”
The words hang in the air between us. His face goes blank. Completely blank.
“What about it?” he finally says.
“I know it’s worth two million. I know you were the beneficiary.” I take a breath. “Or you were. I changed it yesterday. You get nothing now.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t react. Then something shifts in his expression. Something cold.
“You changed it.” His voice is flat. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I know what you’re planning.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. It’s a terrible sound.
“What am I planning, Mom? Please, enlighten me.”
“Colorado. The hiking trail. The accident that was supposed to happen.”
His face goes white, then red.
“That’s insane. Who told you that?” He stops. His eyes narrow. “Someone told you something. Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. Someone’s been lying to you. Filling your head with—”
“Stop.” My voice is still. “I know, Dashel. I know everything. The only question now is what you’re going to do about it.”
We stand there on that terrace, mother and son, and I see the exact moment he makes his decision. His hands curl into fists.
“You can’t do this,” he says quietly. “That money is mine. You owe me.”
“I owe you?” I repeat.
“Yes. Do you have any idea what it was like growing up, watching all my friends have things I couldn’t have because you were too cheap? Living in that tiny house because you wouldn’t spend money on anything decent. Wearing thrift-store clothes. Being the poor kid.”
“We were surviving after your father died,” I say. “After Dad died, you had life insurance. You had money. But you hoarded it. Saved it for what? For this?” He gestures at me. “So you could live in a crappy apartment and die with money in the bank?”
“That money paid for your college.”
“A partial scholarship covered college. You didn’t pay for anything.” His voice is rising. “I took out loans. I worked extra shifts. The life insurance was supposed to be mine when you died naturally. But you’re going to live forever, aren’t you? Stubborn old woman just hanging on, ruining everything.”
“So you decided to speed things up.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just stares at me with eyes full of hate.
“It would have been easy,” he says. “Quick. You wouldn’t have suffered. But now you’ve ruined it. Changed the beneficiary. For what? To spite me?”
“To stay alive.”
“You’re going to die anyway. You’re 68. How many years do you have left? Five? Ten? Why not give me the money now?”
“By killing me?” I ask.
“By letting me be free,” he snaps. “Free of you. Free of guilt. Free of pretending to care about a mother who never gave me anything but scraps.”
The terrace door opens. Marcus steps out—and he’s not alone. Two police officers are with him.
Dashel sees them and his face crumbles.
“You recorded this,” he says. It’s not a question.
I nod.
“You—”
He lunges toward me, and Marcus catches him, pulling him back.
“Dashel Peton,” one of the officers says, “we need you to come with us.”
“On what charge? I didn’t do anything!”
“Conspiracy to commit murder. We have a recording of you admitting to planning your mother’s death. We also have a statement from a witness who overheard you and your fiancée discussing it.”
They put handcuffs on him right there on the terrace. He’s screaming now, calling me names I won’t repeat, saying I’ll regret this, that I’m nothing without him.
They lead him inside, through the lobby. The wedding guests are starting to spill out, curious about the commotion. I see Cresa’s face as she realizes what’s happening. She tries to run, but there are more officers waiting.
They arrest her, too.
I stand on that terrace with Marcus beside me and watch my son being taken away in handcuffs on his wedding day.
“You okay?” Marcus asks.
I don’t know how to answer that.
The next few hours are a blur. Police statements. The recording device taken as evidence. Rian arriving to give her statement, crying, squeezing my hand. The hotel manager looking horrified. Guests leaving in shocked clusters.
By 10 p.m., it’s over. Marcus drives me home, walks me up to my apartment, makes sure I’m safe inside.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “You did good today.”
I don’t feel good. I feel empty.
The weeks that follow are harder than the day itself. The arrest makes the news. My son’s face on every channel. And the story is sensational:
Tech executive and his bride arrested at their own wedding for plotting to murder his mother for insurance money.
The insurance company calls me. The money is safe. The beneficiary change went through. The district attorney calls me. They’re building a case. The recording is damning. Combined with Rian’s testimony and text messages they found on Dashel’s phone discussing the plan, it’s enough.
Dashel’s lawyer calls me, asks if I’ll consider dropping the charges.
I hang up.
The trial is three months later. I testify, tell everything. The recording is played in court. I watch the jury’s faces as they hear my son admit he was planning to kill me. Watch them as he says I owe him. That I ruined his life.
Dashel doesn’t testify, but Cresa does. She tries to claim it was all his idea, that she was scared of him. The prosecutor destroys her story in ten minutes with text messages where she discussed what she’d do with her share of the money.
The jury deliberates for four hours.
Guilty. Both of them.
Dashel gets fifteen years. Cresa gets twelve.
When the sentence is read, Dashel looks at me across the courtroom. His eyes are empty. I don’t recognize the person behind them.
Maybe I never did.
Three months after the trial, I’m sitting in Lula Cafe again, same table where I met Rian the first time. She’s across from me, but she’s not in a server uniform anymore. She’s in college now, nursing school. She shows me her class schedule, and her eyes are bright.
“I kept thinking about what you went through,” she says. “How you stayed so strong. And I thought, I want to help people like that. People who are vulnerable. Who need someone on their side.”
“You already do that,” I tell her.
You might be wondering what happened to that life insurance money. The answer is simple: it’s not mine anymore. After everything was settled, I donated it to a charity that funds scholarships for students from low-income families.
Rian’s scholarship came from that fund.
Dashel would have hated that.
That makes me smile.
When we’re leaving, Rian hugs me tight.
“You saved yourself,” she says. “I just helped a little.”
“You saved my life. There’s nothing little about that.”
I watch her walk away, headed to class, headed to her future. A stranger who became family in the way that matters.
Blood doesn’t make family. Choice does.
I walk home through Chicago. It’s spring now. The trees are budding. The air smells like rain and possibility.
My apartment is still small. Still has a view of a brick wall. But I’ve added some plants. Some photos of Harold from when we were young. A painting I bought at an art fair. It’s starting to feel like mine.
I volunteer at the library now. Teach adult literacy classes. Help people learn to read. And they look at me like I’m giving them the world.
Maybe I am.
Marcus and I have dinner once a week. He’s teaching me to play chess. I’m terrible at it, but it makes him laugh. And his laugh is a good sound.
I’m 68 years old. I have $417 in my checking account. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Rogers Park.
But I’m alive.
And I’ve learned something my son never understood: you don’t measure a life by what you take from it. You measure it by what you give, and who you give it to, and whether they deserve it.
I gave Dashel everything. He didn’t deserve any of it.
But Rian, Marcus, the students I teach, the community I’ve built—they deserve everything I have left to give. That’s not much.
But it’s enough.
It’s more than enough.
If you’ve ever been treated like you’re invisible, like your only value is what someone can take from you, like you’re supposed to just fade away quietly, know this:
You still have power. You still have worth. And you don’t owe anyone your life, no matter what they claim you owe them.
To anyone who’s fighting their own battle right now, who’s facing someone who’s supposed to love them but only sees what they can take:
Your strength is already inside you. You just have to choose to use it.
Stay quiet when you need to. Stay sharp, always. And trust yourself when something feels wrong—because it probably is.
What lesson hit you hardest from the story? And if you were in my shoes, standing on that terrace with Dashel, what would you have done? Would you have confronted him, or found another way?
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Drop your thoughts in the comments below. Tell me what this story meant to you. Tell me about your own battles.