The life insurance company opened an internal review after the arrest. They didn’t want to pay out to someone charged with attempted murder, but they also didn’t want to admit they’d nearly written a check to a criminal plan. Their investigators asked uncomfortable questions: when had I first felt symptoms, who had access to my medication, had I ever consented to changes, did I have documentation?
Catherine built a binder like she was prepping for surgery. Dates of my symptoms. Pharmacy records. Lab results. The recorded hotel conversation. The recorded study call. The exact pills collected from my tissue bag. Evidence, stacked and labeled, because that’s how Catherine loves.
I sat through interviews while the insurance investigator nodded and wrote notes. When he finally looked up, his face had changed. “Mr. Whitmore,” he said, “this is one of the clearest cases I’ve ever seen.”
Clear. Another word that should have been comforting but just made me tired.
The probate issue was worse. Margaret’s attorney attempted to argue that because Margaret and I were still legally married at the time of her arrest, she retained certain rights to shared assets and could claim “spousal interest” in the home and accounts.
Sharon’s response was surgical.
“She attempted to murder him for financial gain,” Sharon said in court. “Any equitable interest is voided by her criminal conduct.”
The judge didn’t even blink. “Denied,” he said, as if swatting away a fly.
Margaret’s relatives tried next. A sister I hadn’t seen in twenty years filed a petition claiming Margaret was “mentally unwell” and should be moved to a psychiatric facility instead of prison, a strategy designed to shorten consequences and open the door for civil claims later.
Detective Morrison testified. Calm, firm, outlining the planning, the concealment, the dosage strategy, the financial motive. The recordings played again. Margaret’s own voice, laughing about my death.
The petition died in the courtroom.
Afterward, Detective Morrison found me in the hallway. “You okay?” she asked.
I surprised myself by answering honestly. “I don’t know,” I said.
Morrison nodded like she understood. “That’s normal,” she replied. “What she did wasn’t just a crime. It was intimacy weaponized. People don’t bounce back clean from that.”
That phrase lodged in my mind: intimacy weaponized.