Husband Kills Mistress for Daughter

I couldn't sleep that night after the funeral. The empty sketchbook haunted me, a silent testament to something terrible I had missed. Around three in the morning, I returned to Emma's room, driven by an instinct I couldn't name. This time, I wasn't just grieving—I was searching.

I ran my hands along the undersides of drawers, checked behind picture frames, and finally lifted her mattress. There it was—a worn leather-bound journal wedged between the mattress and box spring. My hands trembled as I pulled it free. Unlike the pristine sketchbook on her desk, this was clearly well-used, its pages dog-eared and bulging with loose papers.

I sat on her bed, the journal heavy in my lap. Opening it felt like a violation of her privacy, but Emma was gone, and something had driven my sweet girl to that rooftop. I needed to know.

The first entry was dated nearly a year ago.

*Dad didn't come to my art show tonight. Again. Said he had to work late, but Jake just posted photos of them at his soccer game. I don't know why I keep trying.*

I flipped forward, my chest tightening with each page.

*Jake took my history paper from my bag today and spilled coffee all over it. When I told Dad, he said I should be more careful with my things. Jake was smirking the whole time.*

*Rebecca told me my dress made me look 'pudgy' at dinner. Dad laughed. Mom wasn't there to see it.*

The entries grew darker as I continued reading.

*Jake cornered me after school today. Said no one would care if I disappeared. Said Dad only tolerates me because of Mom. I think he's right.*

The final entry, dated the day before she died, was just three lines:

*I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, Mom. You're the only one who'll miss me.*

The journal slipped from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. A terrible clarity washed over me. This wasn't just teenage angst or depression—this was systematic emotional torture. And Michael—my husband, her father—had been complicit in it.

I spent the rest of the night reading every word, absorbing the full horror of what my daughter had endured while I was blind to it. By morning, grief had crystallized into something harder, something with edges.

---

David Chen's office was nothing like I expected. Tucked above a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, it was meticulously organized despite its small size. The man himself matched his space—compact, precise, unassuming.

"Mrs. Mitchell," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "I was sorry to hear about your daughter."

I sat down, clutching my purse. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"You mentioned it was urgent." His voice was neutral, professional.

"I need information," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "About my husband. About his... relationship with Rebecca Thompson. And their finances."

David didn't blink. "Divorce preparation?"

"Something like that."

He nodded once, opening a laptop. "I'll need a retainer. Five thousand to start."

I handed him an envelope. Cash. Withdrawn from an account Michael didn't know about—my "rainy day" fund that had seemed so unnecessary in our perfect life.

"I need absolute discretion," I said. "My husband can't know."

"That's the service I provide, Mrs. Mitchell." He counted the money efficiently, then looked up. "What specifically are you looking for?"

"Everything. How long the affair has been going on. Any joint accounts or properties. Any... plans they might have made."

He typed a few notes. "This may take time."

"I have time," I replied. "But not unlimited. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

As I left his office, a weight lifted. I was no longer just a grieving mother—I was a woman with a purpose.

---

Principal Jennings looked uncomfortable as I sat across from him in his office at Beacon Hill Preparatory. His tie was slightly askew, and he kept adjusting it.

"Mrs. Mitchell, again, please accept my condolences for your loss."

"Thank you," I said automatically. "I have questions about Emma's... about what happened."

He shifted in his leather chair. "Of course. Whatever I can do to help."

"Was Emma being bullied at school?"

His eyes darted away from mine. "We have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying at Beacon Hill."

"That's not what I asked."

Silence stretched between us. I placed Emma's journal on his desk, open to an entry about Jake and his friends cornering her in the school library.

"This happened on your campus," I said quietly. "Under your watch."

Jennings' face flushed. "Mrs. Mitchell, these are serious allegations that would require thorough investigation—"

"Then why hasn't there been one?" My voice was ice. "My daughter is dead."

He looked at the door, then back at me, lowering his voice. "Your husband made it very clear that any suggestion of bullying would result in legal action against the school. His firm represents three board members."

The pieces clicked into place. Of course Michael would protect Jake. Of course he would silence any investigation that might implicate his precious adopted son.

"I see," I said, taking back the journal. As I stood to leave, I added, "Principal Jennings, my husband may control this narrative now, but that won't always be the case."

Walking to my car, I checked my phone. A text from David Chen: *Found something. Meeting tomorrow, 10 AM.*

My husband had secrets. And I was going to uncover every last one of them.