Local Man Dies by Apparent Suicide: Gareth Morris, age 39, found dead in vehicle from suspected carbon monoxide poisoning
But the article doesn’t stop there.
It goes on to discuss how Gareth had recently lost his job at Branley Paper Co due to Halberd International buying out the smaller company and putting them out of business. He was also rumored to be experiencing martial troubles with his wife, Chelsea, due to infidelity.
Other articles focus on how authorities had ruled his death a suicide, but there were odd details that went unsettled. Things like the supposed suicide note that was found at the scene and the fact that fact Gareth reportedly had other marks on his body in the autopsy report.
My mouth goes dry as I scroll to the bottom of one article and find a photo included with the closing paragraph.
Mr. Morris is survived by his wife, Chelsea, and their six-year-old son, George.
In the article is a photo of Gareth and Chelsea—therealChelsea—with their son standing in front of their house. But not just any house.
It’sourhouse. Our home on Linden Way in Rosethorne.
I blink in cold horror, processing what I’m seeing. My mind immediately jumps back to a night many weeks ago when we’d invited Declan’s boss and his wife over for dinner.
Cormac slapped the table with his palm and leaned back in his chair. “Y’know, I knew the bloke who used to live in this house with his wife and kid. Name was Greg… no, Garrett… no, Gareth! That was it. Gareth something. Sad story, though. Poor sod offed himself?—”
“Cormac,” Marge hissed, shooting him a sharp look. “Can we please be civilized at the dinner table?”
We hadn’t pressed him on what he’d said. Cormac Doyle was several drinks deep, and we’d met the previous owners of the house. They’d never told us a thing about the Morris’s. But why would they when they must’ve been eager to sell it off?
But it’s not even important in light of everything else I’ve learned. I’m much more zeroed in on the fact that the woman we’ve hired to be our nanny has been masquerading as her sister all along. For some disturbing reason, she’d assumed her identity and then proceeded to encroach on our lives.
My life.
She’s done everything she could to sabotage situations and ensure certain outcomes, manipulating me, Declan, and the kids every step of the way.
I think a part of me always suspected it, always sensed something was off, even if I always pushed it to the side and convinced myself otherwise. I told myself I was being unreasonable or unfair. That I was judging her too harshly or that it was my insecurity feeling threatened by her.
A perfume shouldn’t make me feel some type of way. Willow giggling with her in the garden shouldn’t matter, and neither should how she always seemed to conveniently be around whenever things went wrong.
And how I know with disturbing certainty that yesterday my insulin episode was no accident at all.
It was intentional.
My insulin wastamperedwith, andshewas responsible. She’s been actively trying to harm me, because she wants me out of the way.
But all of it did. It did matter, because deep down I knew it would come to this.
I close out of the tab and push the iPad aside, fumbling for my phone instead. It’s the first time I’m even touching it in the last twenty-four hours. I dial Declan, frantic as I listen to the rings and wait for him to pick up.
“C’mon,” I mutter. “Babe, pick up! Pick up the phone!”
It goes to voicemail. I call again only for it to send me back to his voice inbox. Desperate and panicked, I type up several texts:
Call me back immediately!!!
Get the kids away from Chelsea
Get her out of the house
She’s not who she says she is
I call him yet again, cursing under my breath as it sends me to voicemail. It’s not like Declan to ignore any calls, let alonemycalls, let alone calls from me while I’m in thehospital.
I could barely even get him to leave my side earlier, what could possibly be?—
