Even now, with me holding his mother hostage, he would never truly blame me.
But so what?
“Daniel, you’re famous for being a dutiful son. You practically worship your mother.”
“I’ll give you thirty minutes. If you don’t bring me the killer, I’ll send your mother to join my son—and then I’ll jump too!”
I laughed bitterly, raised the knife, and brought it down.
A scream pierced the air.
Blood dripped onto the floor, glistening crimson in the sunlight.
Duct tape sealed Margaret’s mouth, leaving her to whimper and tremble violently.
The crowd gasped in horror.
Seeing that I was truly willing to draw blood, Daniel’s face darkened.
“Grace! Stop this madness! I had only one son. Everyone knows how much I loved him.”
“His death tore me apart, but it was an accident. The nanny is still lying in the hospital right now—stop suspecting everyone!”
His tone softened again.
“Grace, come down. What if you slip? Life has to go on.”
For ten years, his love for me and his devotion to our son had been the envy of every neighbor in our community.
They all said I was blessed to have married such a man.
In our first year of love, I was harassed by a group of thugs.
Frailer than most, he still fought them single-handedly, beating them down with sheer willpower, ending up hospitalized with serious injuries.
Late in my pregnancy, when my water broke and we were stuck in traffic, he shielded me with an umbrella against the blazing sun, carried me in his arms, and ran more than ten kilometers—until he collapsed from exhaustion.
Before he passed out, he begged the doctor, “Save my wife first. Save her!”
After our son was born, Daniel immediately announced him as the heir of the Foster family.
Whenever the child had a minor fever, he would panic as though the world was ending.
His friends teased him for being a henpecked husband and doting father, but he took pride in it.
“That’s because you’re jealous I have such a beautiful wife and adorable son!”
Now, even as Margaret bled, he was still worried about my safety.
But I didn’t need his care.
What I needed was the truth—the real murderer.
I drove the knife half an inch into Margaret’s arm, looking down coldly at Daniel.
“An accident? My son has always been obedient—he would never climb to the rooftop on his own. How could he just fall?”