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Daphne huffed, her mouth flattened into a thin line.
“Well, let’s talk turkey, Ruth. You’re not interviewing me because you think I’m Mother Teresa. You’re here because you know that people can’t get enough of murder. They want all the gory details, and they want it straight from the monster’s mouth.”
“People care about true crime because it’s gripping and they learn about investigations and. . . society,” Ruth finished lamely.
“They like it for the same reason people rubberneck at car accidents. Because miseryexcitespeople. And you know that every terrible thing I tell you is going to get you more listeners, more fame, and more money. But it will never be enough. People out there are listening to this podcast, wishing I’d killed more people in worse ways. Because even murder bores them now. You’re here to make a buck off of people’s worst impulses, just like I made a buck off my own.”
Ruth felt a searing fury, an anger so deep and elemental that she had to stop herself from slamming her fist through Daphne’s glass coffee table. She couldn’t take this a second longer.
“Actually, Daphne, I’m here because you killed my father.”
The Eighth Murder?
Chapter Thirty-Five
DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST
RUTH:If you’re listening to this then I’ve gotten Daphne to confess to my father’s murder. That was my main motivation for this podcast. Find the truth, solve the mystery, get justice for my father, and prove to everyone that I had nothing to do with it.
DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST
RUTH:When my father died, the police hauled me in for questioning. His family, the Montgomery family, told the cops that I had recently come back into his life the year before and he planned to change his will, to give me half. They made me out to be some sort of grifter who had pressured him for money, as if the relationship Richard and I were developing wasn’t real.
The police told me that someone had shot Richard with insulin, that he would have experienced seizures before going into a coma and stopping breathing. That this person had wiped the insulin bottles and the needle clean. They told me how my father died, and then they watched how I reacted. It was terrifying, sitting across from two police officers, knowing if I said the wrong thing, I might start a chain of events that could destroy my life and send me to prison. The way the cops acted. . . it was clear that they were just looking for something toproveI was guilty.
The last thing they told me was that Richard had made an appointment with his lawyer to change his will and had informed his family that he would be splitting his wealth equally between his two daughters. But that appointment was for Monday, and he had died on the Sunday, so I wouldn’t be getting a cent. I know the money shouldn’t matter, the sad part was losing my father, just at the moment we were finally building a relationship. But I didn’t know that when Richard died, he’d take my whole future with him.
[There is a muffled sob.]
DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST
I worried for months that the police would find something to connect me to the murder, or that a police officer, perhaps motivated by a connection to my father’s family, would plant some incriminating evidence. I was afraid that I’d be made to pay for his death, and I suppose I have. Richard’s family made sure that everyone knew they suspected me of murdering him and job opportunities had a nasty habit of drying up under their influence. I saw police officers everywhere and knew they were just waiting for me to slip up. I obsessed constantly about the life I would have had if Richard had lived, of how much easier everything would be. My relationship failed and I struggled to get close to people because I was terrified of being hurt again. Five years passed and it felt like Richard’s death would never be solved.
DRAFT: DO NOT USE IN PODCAST
RUTH:The first time I saw a news broadcast about Daphne, they showed the building she used to live in, the Blue Diamond, before going into the retirement home. I recognized it immediately. It was the building next to the Seacrest, the building where my father had lived and died, an unsolved mystery of a wealthy, older man who had just started dating again. Everything fit, slotting together, so smoothly and cleanly, that I knew immediately Daphne was the answer I was looking for.She had killed him.
“Actually, Daphne, I’m here because you killed my father.”
“What?” Daphne sputtered. For the first time, she looked truly surprised. Her wrinkled mouth flapped open and shut with a dry sound, like a trout gasping for breath in a fisherman’s boat.
“My father, Richard Montgomery, died on the tenth of April 2016. Not only was he a wealthy surgeon, but he was also on the board of the Sunshine Development Group, his family’s real estate empire. Richard died in his condo, which was one building over from where you were living at the time and he’d recently told me he had started dating again. He was in his late seventies, and a diabetic, but he died of an insulin overdose that the police treated as suspicious because he had a needle mark on the back of his neck. You even saw a picture of him I had on my computer and said that he looked familiar. I knew as soon as I saw the news, Ifeltit. It’s over, Daphne. You killed him.”
Daphne was still staring at her as if she was completely unrecognizable. Ruth knew that Daphne prided herself on her ability to read people; it was how she’d always been so good at ensnaring men. She would have never expected that someone like Ruth could fool her.
“So, this whole thing was about you trying to catch me out? Are you even a journalist?” Daphne demanded.
Ruth felt triumphant. For the first time, Daphne was on the back foot, and she had the upper hand.
“Yes, I am a journalist, and yes, I also needed the money. But I started this podcast to record your confession of his murder or to find something that tied you to his death. And to show everyone what it’s like for your victims’ families, how you’ve derailed their lives. I lost everything when he died. His family suspected that I did it and cut me out of their lives and sabotaged my career. The police hounded me, trying to pressure me into cracking and confessing. My relationship ended because I was so obsessed with his death and what happened to me. I spent years on antidepressants—”
“Well, that’s just America for you. Everyone these days—” Daphne tried to interrupt, to steer the conversation, but Ruth wasn’t letting go.
“And that case cost me my inheritance. He told me the day before he died that he was planning to change his will, so that I would get half and my half-sister, Lucy, the daughter he raised, would get half. It was a lot of money, the kind of money that would have bought me a home, paid off my student debt, and allowed me to really launch my career. I think it was his way of saying sorry for not being in my life, but it also showed how much he believed in me, so it meant a lot. But the appointment with his lawyer was set for Monday and he died on the Sunday. So, I lost my father and I got nothing.”
“Bad luck,” Daphne said, wincing amiably, but Ruth barreled on, ignoring her, trying to say what she needed to say without Daphne interjecting again.
“Iknowit was you, so why not admit it? It’s not going to change anything for you; it’s just one more murder to add to your list of confessions, but it would give me some peace of mind. This case. . . it ruined my life. Your life is almost over; you could help!” Ruth stopped talking, uncomfortably aware of the pleading note in her voice. Daphne was the only person who could give her this closure, who could finally prove that Ruth wasn’t a murderer, and she wasn’t delusional. Daphne could absolve her of all of this.