You stole my money. And for what? Because mama left me the house instead of you. It wasn’t just the house. Diane’s voice was sharp now, defensive. It was everything. My whole life, I was the afterthought, the disappointment, the one nobody believed in. And you, you had everything. The house, the husband, the career, the respect. You had everything I ever wanted. And you didn’t even appreciate it. So you took it. I took what should have been mine. Margaret stared at her sister at this woman she’d spent her whole life protecting, loving, sacrificing for, and she realized with a clarity that was almost painful that she’d never known Diane at all.
The sister she loved had never existed. She was a mask, a performance, a lie that Diane had been telling for 50 years. “You’re a monster,” Margaret said quietly. You destroyed my life because you were jealous. That’s all this was. Jealousy. Call it whatever you want. I got what I deserved. You got $2 million in insurance money, 400,000 of my money, and a dying husband worth 8 million more. Margaret’s voice was rising now. How much is enough, Diane?
How much do you have to steal before you feel like you’ve gotten what you deserve? Diane didn’t answer. She just sat there watching Margaret with those cold blue eyes. I’m dying, you know. She finally said, “Pancreatic cancer. 6 months, maybe less. So, whatever revenge you’re planning, you’d better hurry. I don’t want revenge.” “Then what do you want?” Margaret was quiet for a long moment. She looked around the room at the expensive furniture, the tasteful artwork, the evidence of a life built on lies and theft and murder.
I want you to confess, she said. I want you to tell the truth. I want the world to know what you did to me, to Gerald Witmore, to everyone you’ve ever used and discarded. Diane laughed. And why would I do that? Because you’re dying. Because in 6 months, none of this. Margaret gestured at the room around them. None of this is going to matter. You can’t take it with you, Diane. But you can leave this world with a clear conscience.
You can finally, for once in your life, do the right thing. The right thing. Diane repeated the words like they were a joke. Maggie, I’ve never done the right thing in my life. It’s a little late to start now. It’s never too late. For you, maybe. You were always the good one, the forgiving one. Diane’s voice dripped with contempt. But I’m not like you. I never was. And I’m not going to spend my last months on earth in a courtroom being judged by people who don’t know me, who don’t understand what I’ve been through.
What have you been through? Margaret couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Diane, you murdered a man. You framed your own sister. You stole everything I had. And you’re the victim here. I survived. Diane’s voice was hard now. Final. That’s what I did. I survived. and I’m not apologizing for it. The room fell silent. Margaret stood there looking at her sister, feeling something shift inside her. For 20 years, she’d held on to hope. Hope that there was an explanation.
Hope that Diane had a reason, a real reason for what she’d done. Hope that somewhere underneath all the lies, the sister she loved was still there. That hope died in this room. There was nothing here. Nothing but a dying woman who felt no remorse for the lives she’d destroyed. Margaret turned to Jessica. “Get it on record,” she said quietly. “All of it. I want the world to know.” Jessica nodded. She’d been recording the entire conversation on her phone.
