Chapter 4 - The Return to Oak Park
The next morning, Morgan woke up early with a singular mission. She needed guidance, and the only person who had ever seen through the fog of her life was the old woman on the CTA bus.
She took the exact same bus route, catching the 7:15 AM transit from her neighborhood toward Oak Park. She sat near the middle, scanning every face, every elderly passenger in a trench coat, every person carrying the faint scent of lavender.
For three consecutive mornings, she rode that bus without success. On the fourth morning, just as she was about to give up hope, the bus stopped at an intersection near Oak Park Avenue. An elderly woman stepped on, wearing a familiar grey trench coat, a deep green beret, and leaning lightly on a polished wooden cane.
Morgan sprang from her seat almost instantly, hurrying down the aisle. “Excuse me,” she breathed, her voice trembling slightly. “Do you remember me?”
The old woman paused, turning her sharp, piercing eyes toward Morgan. A slow, knowing smile touched the corners of her wrinkled mouth.
“Ah, the girl with the heavy shoulders,” the woman said softly. “You didn't wear it, did you?”
“No,” Morgan said, her eyes wide. “I put it in water. It turned purple. It was poison. Who are you? How did you know?”
The old woman—who introduced herself as Margaret Vance, a retired federal toxicologist and forensic investigator who had spent decades analyzing trace poisons—motioned for Morgan to sit beside her.
“I saw your husband three weeks ago at a downtown cafe meeting a shady character with a reputation for procuring untraceable botanical toxins,” Margaret explained calmly, her gaze unwavering. “And I saw the look in his eyes when he looked at you. Some men are like wolves dressed in sheep's wool, child. They smile while they sharpen the knife.”
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“What should I do?” Morgan asked, her voice laced with desperation. “He took out a life insurance policy on me. He’s trying to steal my family's cottage. If I just leave him, he’ll find a way to ruin me financially or worse.”
Margaret patted Morgan’s hand gently, her touch surprisingly warm and firm. “You don't run from a wolf, Morgan. You trap it. You have the evidence—the corroded necklace, the insurance papers, the forged documents. But you need to let him walk directly into his own snare.”
