Chicago Horror Wife 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 Her Husband & Mailed His 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 To His Young Lover | HO”

The video began with an empty bedroom flooded with daylight. The recording was dated the day before yesterday, Tuesday, around 1:00 in the afternoon.

Chanel remembered that day. She was at work, sorting through quarterly reports at the insurance company’s office. Tyrone said he had the day off and would stay home to do some chores.

Tyrone appeared on the screen. He entered the bedroom alone. Behind him followed a young woman in a light summer dress. She was slender, beautiful, with long hair braided into pigtails.

They were laughing.

Tyrone put his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her on the lips long, passionately, the way he hadn’t kissed Chanel in many years.

Chanel’s heart sank. Her hands turned to ice. She couldn’t take her eyes off the screen, even though every second was tearing her apart.

The woman in the video laughed and playfully pushed Tyrone away, but he insistently pulled her back. They began to kiss more intensely, their hands sliding over each other’s bodies.

Tyrone pulled her dress off. She unbuttoned his shirt. They fell onto the bed, the very bed where Chanel had slept next to him for 13 years.

Chanel watched her husband make love to another woman. She watched him laugh, whisper something in her ear, and hug her afterwards.

They lay together for another 20 minutes, talking, caressing each other. Then the woman got up, got dressed, and they left the room together.

Only then did Chanel pause the recording.

She was shaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away. A lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.

She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears, silently, convulsively, with her whole body.

She knew this woman. She recognized her immediately.

Aaliyah.

Aaliyah Concaid, the administrator at the dental clinic on Chestnut Street where Chanel had gone for a checkup a month ago.

A pretty, smiling girl who had made her appointment and chatted amiably about the weather while she filled out the paperwork. At the time, Chanel had even thought what a pleasant young woman she was.

And now this pleasant young woman had slept with her husband in her house, in her bed.

How long had this been going on? Months? Years?

How many times had Tyrone lied to her when he went to see her? How many times had he kissed Chanel when he came back from her?

Chanel didn’t sleep all night.

She watched the recording over and over again as if hoping to see something else, that it would turn out to be a mistake, a hallucination.

But the video didn’t change. The reality remained cruel and undeniable.

In the morning, she called work and said she was sick.

Tyrone left early as usual, kissed her carelessly on the cheek, and wished her a good day.

She watched him go with a look full of hatred.

Around 10:00 in the morning, Chanel got into her old Honda and drove across town to Jennica St. Clair, her best friend from college.

Jennica lived in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of town in a modest house with a tiny yard. She worked as a cashier at a supermarket, raised two children on her own, and was always the person Chanel turned to when her world fell apart.

Jennica opened the door in her bathrobe, a cup of coffee in her hand. When she saw Chanel’s face, she knew immediately that something had happened.

“My goodness, Chanel, what’s wrong? You look pale. Come in quickly.”

They went into the kitchen. Jennica sat her friend down at the table and poured her some water.

Chanel drank silently, not knowing where to start.

“What happened?” Jennica asked gently, sitting down opposite her. “Is it Tyrone?”

Chanel nodded. Her lips trembled.

“He’s cheating on me,” she finally blurted out. “I saw it on video. He brought her home when I was away, and they… they slept in our bed.”

Jennica gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Oh no. Chanel, sweetie, are you sure? Maybe it was something—”

“I saw everything, Jennica. Everything. I installed a camera in the bedroom a week ago because I suspected something. And now I have proof. He slept with her right there where we’ve lived together for 13 years. He laughed with her, kissed her, whispered sweet nothings to her, and then he came home and acted like nothing had happened.”

Jennica stood up, walked around the table, and put her arms around Chanel’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry. So damn sorry. You don’t deserve this. Who is this woman?”

“Her name is Aaliyah. She works at a dental clinic. I’ve only seen her once, but I remember her. She’s young and beautiful. I guess that’s the kind of woman he’s wanted all along.”

“Don’t say that,” Jennica said sternly. “It’s not you, it’s him. If a man decides to cheat, it’s his choice, his weakness. You’re a wonderful woman, Chanel, and you are a wonderful wife. He’s just a jerk, that’s all.”

Chanel wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

“What should I do? I don’t know what to do. I’m so angry. I’m so devastated. I want to scream. I want to destroy everything around me. But at the same time, I feel paralyzed. I can’t even think straight.”

Jennica sighed heavily and sat down next to her, taking Chanel’s hands.

“Listen to me carefully. You have to leave him. Get a divorce. Things like this can’t be forgiven, Chanel. He betrayed you in the most despicable way. He won’t change. If you stay, it will happen again and again. Pack your things, find a good lawyer, and leave. Start a new life. You deserve someone who will truly love you.”

“Divorce,” Chanel repeated as if tasting the word. “Just divorce. That’s it?”

“What else?” Jennica shrugged. “You’re not going to get revenge on him or anything like that, are you? That will only make things worse. Just walk away with your head held high and forget him.”

Chanel nodded slowly. Jennica’s words sounded reasonable. Of course, divorce. It was the logical decision. Civilized, right?

They sat together for another hour, drinking coffee and talking about the future. Jennica tried to cheer her friend up and promised to help with the move if necessary.

Chanel felt a little better, although the pain inside her hadn’t gone away.

She returned home around 3:00 in the afternoon.

The house greeted her with silence. Empty rooms, familiar things, photos on the walls. All of it now seemed fake. A backdrop for a life that didn’t really exist.

Chanel decided she would talk to Tyrone that evening. She would tell him everything straight up. She would tell him that she knew about Aaliyah, that she had seen the recording, that their marriage was over.

There would be no scandal, no tears, just an honest conversation between two adults.

She made herself a light dinner, even though she didn’t feel like eating at all.

She sat down in the living room, turned on the TV, but didn’t hear what was being said. All her attention was focused on the door, on the sound of the key in the lock.

Six o’clock.

Seven.

Eight.

Tyrone still wasn’t there.

At 8:20, she received a message from him on her phone.

Running late at work. Big project. Need to finish up. Will be back late. Don’t wait up for me. Have dinner without me.

Chanel stared at the screen. “Running late at work. Big project.”

Lies.

More lies.

He wasn’t at work. He was with her—with Aaliyah—again.

Once again he chose her over his own wife. Once again he lied without even trying to come up with something more convincing.

Something inside Chanel snapped.

A cold rage so strong that she could literally feel everything inside her tightening into a tight knot.

She got up from the sofa and walked over to the mantelpiece where there was a large photograph in a silver frame: their wedding photo.

Tyrone in a suit, she in a white dress, both smiling at the camera, happy, in love, full of hope for the future.

Chanel grabbed the frame with both hands.

She stared at it for a few seconds, feeling the anger rise like a wave, flooding everything else.

Then, with a sharp movement, she threw the photo against the wall.

The frame hit with a dull thud, the glass shattering into tiny pieces. The photo fell out and landed face down on the floor.

Chanel stood there breathing heavily, staring at the pieces.

Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding.

The call to emergency services came in at 7:32 a.m. the next day.

The operator, a young woman named Teresa who worked the night shift, was already preparing to hand over to the day shift when a new line lit up on her monitor.

She pressed the answer button.

“911, what is your emergency?”

A woman’s voice came through the line, trembling, choked with tears and panic.

“Help. Please help me. I don’t know what to do. It’s—”

“Ma’am, please calm down and tell me what happened. Are you safe?”

“I… yes, I’m at home, but… oh my God, it’s so awful. Someone left at my door a box—”

The operator began entering the information into the system while trying to understand the nature of the problem.

“Okay, ma’am. You’re saying someone left a box at your door? What’s in the box?”

The woman on the other end of the line let out a sob that sounded like a cry.

“There’s… there’s a male… a male organ. A real one. I think it’s real. I opened the box and saw… oh my God, I’m going to throw up. It’s someone’s—someone cut it off. Please come immediately.”

Teresa sat up straight in her chair. Calls like this were rare.

“Ma’am, I’m sending the police to you right now. Give me your address.”

“Apartment 2178 Somerset Avenue. My name is Aaliyah. Aaliyah Concaid.”

“Aaliyah, the police are on their way. Stay on the line. Did you touch the contents of the box?”

“No. No. I just opened the lid and closed it again. I… I can’t look at it. Who could have done this? Why me?”

“Do you know who could have done this? Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might threaten you?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t understand.” Aaliyah was choking back sobs. “I haven’t done anything bad to anyone.”

The patrol car arrived 11 minutes later.

Two police officers went up to the second floor of the apartment building where a pale girl with red, tear‑stained eyes was waiting for them.

She pointed to a small cardboard box standing at the threshold of the apartment.

One of the officers put on gloves, carefully opened the lid, looked inside, and immediately closed it again.

He exchanged glances with his partner.

“Call the detectives,” he said curtly. “This isn’t our level.”

Detective Everett Holloway learned of the case at 8:45 when the sergeant on duty called him on his cell phone.

Everett was finishing his second coffee at his favorite café on Market Street before heading to the station.

He was a tall, sturdy man with short graying hair and a tired but alert gaze. Twenty years on the homicide squad had taught him not to be surprised by human cruelty.

But this case was strange even by his standards.

He called his junior partner, Detective Reena Okafor, and within half an hour, they were standing at the door of Aaliyah Concaid’s apartment.

Reena was the complete opposite of Everett. She was a young, energetic woman of 32 with short hair and quick movements. She was born in Philadelphia, but her parents had come from Nigeria, and she wore that part of her identity with pride.

At work, she was ambitious, sometimes impulsive, relying on intuition where Everett used methodicalness.

Aaliyah let them in.

She was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, even though the apartment was quite warm. Her face was pale, her lips trembling. An untouched cup of tea stood on the coffee table.

Everett and Reena sat down opposite her.

The box had already been taken away by the forensic team for analysis, but the detectives had seen photos of its contents.

It was indeed a male sexual organ, severed and wrapped in plastic film. No notes, no identifying marks.

“Ms. Concaid,” Everett began gently. “I understand that you are in shock right now, but we need to ask you a few questions. It will help us find the person who did this. Are you ready to talk?”

Aaliyah nodded without looking up.

“When did you discover the box?”

“This morning. Around 7:00. I woke up, got ready for work, opened the door, and saw it there on the rug.”

“Did you hear anything during the night? Footsteps, noises at the door?”

“No, nothing. I went to bed around 11:00 and took a sleeping pill because I sometimes have insomnia. I slept soundly.”

Reena wrote in her notebook.

“Do you have any idea who could have done this? Any former partners who might hold a grudge? Conflicts at work?”

Aaliyah shook her head.

“No, nothing like that. I haven’t had any serious conflicts in the last six months. Everything is fine at work. I’m on good terms with everyone. I don’t understand who could—why.”

“Ms. Concaid.” Everett leaned forward, his voice becoming slightly stricter. “This is a very specific type of threat. Someone wanted to scare you or send you a message. Are you in a relationship with someone right now? Perhaps a married man?”

Aaliyah raised her head sharply. Her eyes widened.

She was silent for a few seconds, clearly struggling with herself.

“I… it’s not relevant. It’s not—”

“Ms. Concaid. Any information could be important,” Reena interjected. “Please be honest with us.”

Aaliyah covered her face with her hands.

“Yes, I’m seeing a married man. His name is Tyrone. Tyrone Dubois. We’ve been together for four months, but he promised he would get a divorce, that he would leave his wife for me. He said he loved me.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

A married man, a mistress, a severed organ delivered to her doorstep. The picture was starting to come together.

“Do you think his wife might have found out about your relationship?” Everett asked.

“I don’t know. Tyrone said she didn’t suspect anything. We were careful. We met at his house when she wasn’t there or at mine. He always made sure she was at work.”

“What’s his wife’s last name? Do you know it?”

“Chanel. Chanel Dubois. But I’ve never met her. Tyrone never let me cross paths with her.”

Everett took out his phone and stepped aside. Dialing the station number, he asked them to run a check on Tyrone Dubois, find his address, and see if there were any reports filed against him.

Reena continued to question Aaliyah about the details of their relationship, how often they saw each other, whether anyone else knew about their connection.

The detectives left Aaliyah alone after an hour.

They agreed that she would be careful, install additional locks, and call them if she noticed anything suspicious. Everett left her his business card.

They went outside to the car, and Reena spoke first.

“A jealous wife who found out about the affair. Classic motive. Maybe she decided to scare her rival.”

“Possibly,” Everett agreed, getting behind the wheel. “But this organ came from somewhere. We need to find Tyrone Dubois and talk to him. If his wife is really behind this, he must know about her behavior.”

But they couldn’t find Tyrone Dubois.

His phone was unavailable. No one answered the door at the address provided by the computer. The company where he worked reported that Tyrone had not shown up for work and had not given any reason for his absence.

Early the next morning, when the pre‑dawn fog still hung over Philadelphia, a worker at an industrial warehouse on the outskirts of the city stumbled upon a body.

The man was lying behind some containers in a pool of blood that had already congealed and turned black.

He was wearing jeans and a shirt. His face was contorted in a grimace of pain.

The worker called the police and within 20 minutes, the area was cordoned off.

Everett and Reena arrived at the scene around 9:00 in the morning.

Forensic investigators were already at work, photographing the crime scene and collecting samples. The pathologist, a gray‑haired man with a penetrating gaze, was examining the body.

The detectives moved closer. Everett immediately noticed the main detail.

The victim’s groin area was covered in blood and his jeans were cut open.

“Castrated?” he asked the pathologist quietly.

“Yes. Castrated and killed. From the looks of it, first castration, then death from blood loss. He bled to death on the spot. No attempt was made to stop the bleeding. The killer wanted him to die slowly and painfully.”

Reena grimaced.

“That’s cruel even by our standards. Does he have any ID?” Everett asked.

“Driver’s license in his back pocket,” one of the crime scene investigators replied, handing over a clear evidence bag.

Tyrone Dubois, 42 years old.

Everett and Reena exchanged glances again.

Tyrone Dubois. Aaliyah’s lover. Chanel’s husband.

“Time of death?” Reena asked.

“Preliminary estimate is between 11 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. the night before last,” said the pathologist. “I’ll be able to say more after the autopsy, but that’s a rough estimate. The body has been here for about 36 hours.”

The detectives moved away from the crime scene, letting the forensic team do their work.

They stood by the car thinking about the information.

“So, he was killed the same night Aaliyah was given the organ,” said Reena. “First, they killed him. Then, they delivered the organ to her. It’s revenge.”

“Chanel Dubois,” repeated Everett. “We need to go to her, tell her about her husband’s death, and see how she reacts.”

Dubois’s address was in the database. It was a neat house in a quiet neighborhood with a well‑kept lawn and flowers by the porch.

The detectives parked on the side of the road and walked to the front door. Everett rang the doorbell.

It took about a minute before the door opened.

Standing before them was a woman of about 38, of average height, dressed in casual clothes. Her face was tired, her eyes slightly red, as if she had not slept well.

She looked at the detectives with slight confusion.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Dubois? Chanel Dubois?” Everett asked, taking out his badge. “I’m Detective Holloway. This is Detective Okafor. Can we talk to you?”

Chanel’s face tensed.

“Has something happened? Is this about Tyrone? He didn’t come home last night. He’s not answering his phone.”

“Mrs. Dubois, may we come in?”

Chanel stepped aside, letting them in.

They walked into the living room. The detectives noticed shards of glass in the corner, as if someone had recently broken something and not completely cleaned it up.

They sat down. Everett took a deep breath. Delivering death news was the hardest part of the job every time.

“Mrs. Dubois, I’m very sorry, but I have some bad news for you. Your husband’s body was found this morning. Tyrone Dubois is dead.”

Chanel froze for a few seconds. She just stared at Everett, unblinking, as if she didn’t understand the words.

“What?” she finally exhaled. “What did you say?”

“Your husband is dead. We found his body this morning. I’m very sorry.”

Chanel covered her mouth with her hand. Her breathing became ragged. She shook her head as if refusing to believe it.

“No, that’s impossible. How? What happened?”

“He was murdered. We are investigating the case. Mrs. Dubois, we need to ask you a few questions.”

Chanel stood up and paced around the room, wrapping her arms around herself. She was trembling.

“Killed? He was killed? Oh my God.”

Reena waited a moment, giving the woman time to process the information. Then she asked gently,

“Mrs. Dubois, when was the last time you saw your husband?”

Chanel sank back onto the sofa as if her legs could no longer support her.

“The day before yesterday morning. He left for work. In the evening, he texted me to say he was running late. He said he’d be back late. I went to bed and when I woke up in the morning, he was gone. I thought he might be…”

She faltered.

“Where could he be?” Everett prompted her.

Chanel looked up at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. But there was something else there, too: anger, pain, disappointment.

“With his mistress,” she said quietly. “I knew he was cheating on me. I’d known for several weeks. I saw them together on the security camera footage. He brought her to our house and slept with her in our bed. Her name is Aaliyah. Aaliyah Concaid.”

The detectives exchanged glances. Chanel was telling them everything herself without any pressure.

“Did you talk to your husband about this?” Reena asked.

“No. I wanted to. I planned to talk to him that evening when he sent a message saying he would be late, but he didn’t come home and now he never will.”

“Mrs. Dubois, where were you the night before last?” Everett asked directly.

Chanel looked at him, not looking away.

“I had a book club meeting. We meet every other Thursday. I was there from 8:00 p.m. to midnight at Jennica St. Clair’s, my friend’s house. There were five of us. You can check.”

“We will.” Everett nodded. “Give us the names and contact information of everyone who was there.”

Chanel stood up, walked over to the table, and wrote five names and phone numbers on a piece of paper. She handed it to Everett.

The detectives spent the next few hours calling the book club members.

Jennica St. Clair confirmed her alibi. Yes, there was a meeting. Yes, Chanel was there from 8:00 p.m. They discussed the book, drank wine, and talked. Chanel was the last to leave around midnight.

The other three women confirmed the same thing. All the details matched.

Tyrone’s time of death was between 11 p.m. and midnight.

Chanel was at the meeting at that time with five witnesses. Her alibi was ironclad.

Everett and Reena sat in the car outside the station analyzing the situation.

“She couldn’t have killed him,” said Reena. “Her alibi is flawless. Five witnesses who aren’t close enough to each other to lie in a coordinated way.”

“Maybe it wasn’t her at all,” Everett said thoughtfully. “Maybe Tyrone had other enemies, debts, conflicts at work. We need to check his finances, his connections.”

Reena nodded.

“The case has only just begun. So far, we have more questions than answers.”

The detectives returned to the station feeling like they had reached a dead end.

A wife with an ironclad alibi. A mistress in shock. A victim killed with particular cruelty. Someone wanted Tyrone Dubois to suffer.

But who exactly remained a mystery.

The investigation stalled on the third day.

Everett Holloway and Reena Okafor checked all the obvious leads. Tyrone’s financial records showed no large debts or suspicious transactions. His co‑workers described him as an ordinary employee with no enemies. And his phone records revealed no threatening calls or messages.

Everything pointed to a crime of passion, but the prime suspect had a solid alibi.

The detectives decided to go back to basics, to the crime scene and its surroundings.

The industrial area where Tyrone’s body was found was a semi‑abandoned area with warehouses, workshops, and a few residential buildings. The area was quiet, especially at night, and people there were used to minding their own business.

Everett and Reena began a methodical tour of the area, knocking on doors, showing Tyrone’s photo, and asking if anyone had seen anything suspicious on the night of the murder.

Most residents shook their heads. Some refused to open their doors at all. One elderly man said he had heard some noise around midnight, but didn’t think anything of it. There was always something going on in this neighborhood.

Luck smiled on them in the afternoon when they knocked on the door of a small house three blocks from where the body had been found.

The door was opened by a man in his 50s wearing overalls, with the tired face of someone who had just returned from a shift.

“Detectives?” he asked, looking at their badges. “Is this about the dead guy they found by the warehouses?”

“Yes, sir,” Everett nodded. “We’re interviewing everyone in the neighborhood. Did you notice anything unusual on Thursday night or Friday morning? Maybe you saw unfamiliar cars or heard something?”

The man scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, I work the night shift, so I usually sleep during the day, but that night I was at home, couldn’t sleep for some reason. Around 11:00, I went out on the porch to smoke and I saw a white van driving down the street. It was driving slowly, as if the driver was looking for something.”

Reena took out her notebook.

“A white van. Do you remember the model? The license plate number?”

“I can’t tell you the model. I don’t know anything about cars. It was just a van, a regular cargo van. I couldn’t see the license plate. It was dark, but I remember it because the car drove back and forth twice. Then I went back inside. I don’t know where it went after that.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No, it was too dark and too far away. Just a silhouette behind the wheel.”

“That’s important information,” Everett said. “Thank you. If you remember anything else, give us a call.” He handed him his business card.

Back in the car, the detectives discussed the new lead.

“A white van in the area on the night of the murder,” said Reena. “It could be a coincidence, but it’s worth checking out. We need to request surveillance camera footage from all the roads leading to that area.”

They spent the next few hours at the station reviewing the CCTV footage.

Most of the cameras were private, belonging to shops or gas stations, and the quality of the recordings left much to be desired.

But on one of the cameras, located at an intersection about a kilometer from where the body was found, they found what they were looking for.

The recording was dated that same Thursday at 11:42 p.m.

The screen showed a white van driving through the intersection toward the industrial area.

The quality was too poor to make out the driver, but the license plate was partially visible.

“There it is,” Reena muttered, zooming in on the image. “Can you read the number?”

Everett squinted, staring at the blurry picture.

“The first three characters are clear. The rest is unreadable, but that might be enough to search the database. Let’s run a search for white vans with partially matching numbers in Philadelphia and the surrounding area.”

The database returned a list of 23 vans.

The detectives began checking each owner. Most were companies—plumbers, electricians, delivery services. A few were private individuals.

Each one required verification, which took time.

By evening, they had reached the 17th name on the list.

Lamont Brooks, 39 years old, owner of a white Ford van registered six years ago. Address: an apartment on the outskirts of town in a less than desirable neighborhood.

Reena dug deeper into the name and discovered a criminal past.

Lamont had been convicted eight years ago for burglary, served two years, and was released on parole. In recent years, he had been doing odd jobs and was officially unemployed.

“Another one,” Reena sighed. “A conviction for theft, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. There are thousands of white vans in the city. We can’t waste time on pointless checks.”

Everett nodded.

“I agree, but since we’ve started, let’s see it through to the end. We’ll go see him tomorrow morning and ask him a few questions. If his alibi is solid, we’ll cross him off and move on.”

But Reena continued to stare at the computer screen, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. She always relied on her intuition, and something about that name made her want to dig deeper.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Lamont Brooks… Brooks, I think I found something.”

She opened the file with the information they had gathered about Chanel Dubois during their investigation: education, places of employment, acquaintances, relatives.

And there it was under education: Franklin High School, class of 2005.

Reena quickly searched the school archives. They had been digitized and were accessible to the police.

The list of graduates from 2005.

Chanel Dubois. Yes, on the list.

And here’s another name.

Lamont Brooks.

“Everett,” Reena said quietly. “They went to the same school. Chanel and Lamont Brooks. Classmates.”

Everett turned sharply to her.

“What?”

“See for yourself. Class of 2005, Franklin High School. Both are on the list. They know each other.”

The detectives exchanged glances.

A random coincidence had turned into a lead.

“First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going to see him,” Everett said decisively. “And this time we’re going to ask some tough questions.”

Morning found Everett and Reena at a dilapidated apartment building on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

The building looked depressing. Peeling paint, broken windows on the first floor, trash in the entrance.

The detectives climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor, which smelled of mold and something sour.

Lamont’s apartment was at the end of the hallway.

Everett knocked. No answer.

He knocked again louder.

“Lamont Brooks. Police. Open the door.”

There was a noise from inside. Then the sound of shuffling feet.

The door opened on a chain and a man’s face appeared in the crack, unshaven, with red eyes, smelling of alcohol.

“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely.

“Mr. Brooks, I’m Detective Holloway. This is Detective Okafor. We need to talk to you. Open the door.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Lamont muttered.

“We don’t need a warrant to talk to you, but if you don’t open it voluntarily, we can get one very quickly, especially considering your criminal record and connection to the murder investigation.”

Lamont froze. He stood motionless for a few seconds, then slowly removed the chain and opened the door.

The apartment was in terrible condition. Dirty dishes on the table, empty whiskey bottles on the floor, clothes scattered everywhere. The air was stale and heavy.

Lamont himself looked no better than his surroundings, in a dirty T‑shirt and wrinkled pants, barefoot, with the shaky hands of an alcoholic.

“Sit down somewhere if you can find a place.” He waved his hand toward the sofa, which was covered with a pile of rags.

The detectives remained standing.

“Mr. Brooks, where were you on the night of Thursday to Friday last week?” Everett began immediately.

Lamont scratched his head, clearly struggling to think.

“Hell if I know. At home, probably, or at the bar. I don’t remember.”

“Your white van was seen near the crime scene that night,” Reena said. “Explain what you were doing there.”

“What crime scene? I wasn’t anywhere. My van is in the yard. I haven’t used it in a week.”

“Mr. Brooks, we can verify that. If you’re lying, it will only make things worse for you.”

Lamont nervously licked his lips. His eyes darted around.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone, if that’s what you’re talking about. I live a quiet life. I don’t bother anyone.”

Everett took a step closer, his voice hardening.

“Do you know Chanel Dubois? You went to school with her.”

At the mention of Chanel’s name, Lamont’s face changed. Fear flashed in his eyes.

“Chanel? Yes, I remember her. So what? We haven’t been in touch since graduation.”

“Not in touch?” Reena asked. “Then explain why your van was near the place where her husband’s body was found. Why do you get nervous when we mention her name?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mr. Brooks, we can make this easy or difficult.” Everett crossed his arms over his chest. “Right now, we only have questions, but if you continue to lie, we’ll take you to the station, get a search warrant for your apartment and your van, and believe me, we’ll find what we’re looking for. DNA, blood stains, evidence. They always remain no matter how thoroughly the criminal cleans up. You’re a former thief, Lamont. You know how the system works, so decide right now. Are you going to cooperate, or do you want to make life difficult for yourself?”

Lamont stood there, trembling all over. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He walked over to the table, plopped down on a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

“Damn it,” he exhaled. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

The detectives remained silent, giving him time.

Finally, Lamont raised his head. His eyes were filled with despair.

“She paid me,” he said quietly. “Chanel paid me. Fifteen thousand dollars. Half up front, half after. I didn’t want to. I swear to God, I didn’t want to do it. But I have debts. They threatened to break my legs if I didn’t pay them back. And she… she offered me a way out.”

Reena turned on the voice recorder on her phone.

“Tell us everything from the beginning. When did she approach you?”

Lamont sighed heavily.

“Three weeks ago, maybe a little more. She found me through old classmates, got my phone number. She called and said she wanted to meet. I was surprised; we hadn’t talked in a hundred years, but I went. We met at a café on the outskirts. She looked strange, tense, angry. She said she knew about my lifestyle and that she had a job for me. She said her husband was cheating on her and she wanted revenge. At first, I thought she just wanted to scare him or something like that. But then she explained everything.”

“What exactly did she want?”

“For me to kill him. Kill him and… and do that to him. Cut him, and take it to the girl he slept with. She said it should be a message, that they both had to pay for what they did to her.”

Everett felt the tension in the room reach its peak.

“Did you agree?”

“Not right away. I said it was crazy, that I wasn’t a killer. But she offered money. Fifteen thousand. I was desperate, you understand? I needed that money. And she was so confident, so calm. She said she had a plan, that I wouldn’t get caught.”

“What plan?”

“She said she’d be out with her friends all night, that she’d have an alibi, that she’d give me the keys to the house, her lover’s address, everything I needed. I was supposed to come when the husband was home alone, do it, and take the body far away from the house. Then take the… the part… to that girl.”

“And you agreed?” Reena stated.

Lamont nodded, staring at the floor.

“Yes. God, I hate myself for it, but I agreed. She gave me $7,500 right away. Said I’d get the rest when I did everything. That Thursday, we met in the evening around 7:00. She gave me the keys to the house, the address, and said her husband would be home alone after 10:00. Then she left for her meeting, and I went there.”

“What happened next?”

Lamont covered his face with his hands, his voice trembling.

“I arrived around 11:00. I entered the house through the back door using the key. He was in the living room watching TV. I approached him from behind and hit him on the head with the bat I had brought with me. He fell. He was conscious but stunned. I… I did what she said. First, I took him to a safe place and cut him. Then, I just waited for him to bleed to death. He was dying for about 20 minutes, maybe more. It was horrible. I can still hear his moans.”

Silence fell over the room. Even the detectives, who had seen a lot, were shocked by such candor and cruelty.

“Then I wrapped the body in a tarp and dragged it into the van. I drove it to the industrial zone and left it behind the containers. I packed the… organ as she instructed and took it to the girl’s address. I left the box at the door. I returned home. She transferred the rest of the money to me the next day in cash when we met in the park.”

“Where’s the money now?” Everett asked.

“I’ve already paid off most of my debts. I drank the rest away.”

Everett and Reena exchanged glances.

The confession was complete.

“The case is closed,” Reena murmured under her breath, though they both knew it wasn’t really “closed” for anyone involved.

“Lamont Brooks, you are under arrest for the murder of Tyrone Dubois,” Everett said, taking out his handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney…”

Lamont did not resist. He obediently allowed himself to be handcuffed and led to the car.

An hour later, the detectives and their support team arrived at Chanel Dubois’s house.

Everett rang the doorbell.

Chanel opened the door, surprise written all over her face.

“Detective Holloway, is something wrong?”

“Chanel Dubois, you are under arrest for organizing the murder of your husband, Tyrone Dubois,” Everett said calmly. “We have a confession from the hitman and evidence of your involvement.”

Chanel’s face froze.

She stood motionless for a few seconds, then slowly turned around, holding out her hands for the handcuffs.

She didn’t scream, cry, or try to deny it. She just silently allowed herself to be handcuffed.

The detectives led her to the car.

Chanel sat in the back seat between two officers. The car started moving.

Chanel looked out the window at the streets of Philadelphia passing by.

Her face was expressionless, like a mask. There was no fear, no remorse, only emptiness.

Somewhere deep inside, where love and hope once lived, there was now nothing left.

Back in the now‑abandoned home office, on a corkboard above a dark laptop, the tiny plastic US flag thumbtack still held the wedding photo in place. In a clear evidence bag on a detective’s desk downtown, an identical flag pin now secured a different document: a copy of the payment sheet showing $7,500 withdrawn in cash three weeks before the murder.

Two pieces of plastic, two papers, the same number circled, and a life cut cleanly into “before” and “after.”

Chanel knew that her life had ended the moment she saw the video of her husband’s infidelity. Everything else was just a logical consequence.