Chapter 3 - THE GRIEVING WIDOWER
The safehouse was a massive, ultra-secure architectural masterpiece carved into the cliffs of a private island off the coast of Baja California, Mexico. Owned by a shell corporation untraceable to my name, it was a fortress of glass and steel, completely off the grid but wired with the most advanced satellite communications systems in the world.
I sat in the dim light of the command center, a soft cashmere blanket draped over my shoulders, staring at a wall of high-definition monitors. My hand rested on my stomach. The private medical team had run a full ultrasound hours ago. Miraculously, the baby was fine. A strong, steady heartbeat had filled the room, washing away the last of my terror and leaving only a fierce, primal maternal instinct to protect my child at all costs.
Now, I was watching the man who had tried to kill us both.
The screens displayed live feeds from the dozens of microscopic, undetectable cameras Marcus had secretly installed throughout our Malibu mansion months ago. On the center screen, Richard was sitting on the edge of our custom king-sized bed, surrounded by two LAPD detectives and a crisis counselor.
His performance was, frankly, Oscar-worthy.
Richard’s face was buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with manufactured sobs. His hair, usually styled to perfection, was intentionally disheveled. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn on the helicopter, though I noticed he had managed to rumple his expensive linen shirt to look as though he had been tearing at it in grief.
"It was so fast," Richard choked out, looking up at the lead detective with bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. "One second she was smiling, looking out at the water... and the next, the helicopter hit an air pocket. It jerked violently. She wasn't holding onto the safety rail. She just... slipped. I reached for her! God, I reached for her hand, but my fingers just brushed her coat, and she was gone!"
He buried his face in his hands again, letting out a loud, agonizing wail that made my stomach churn with disgust.
"Mr. Hayes, we understand this is an unimaginable tragedy," the detective said gently, placing a sympathetic hand on Richard's shoulder. "The Coast Guard has deployed five cutters and two search-and-rescue helicopters to the grid where you reported she fell. But given the altitude and the ocean temperatures..."
"Don't say it!" Richard yelled, jumping up from the bed and pacing the room like a wounded animal. "She's out there! You have to find her! She's pregnant, for God's sake!"
I watched his pacing, my eyes tracking his micro-expressions. To the detectives, he looked like a man broken by loss. But I knew him. I saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the rapid calculation in his eyes. He wasn't pacing out of grief; he was pacing off the adrenaline of getting away with murder.
"The pilot corroborated your story, Mr. Hayes," the second detective added, flipping through a small notepad. "He reported sudden turbulence and a loss of cabin pressure when the side door was opened. It appears to be a tragic, freak accident. We'll need a formal statement tomorrow, but for now, we'll leave you to rest."
Once the police were gone, Richard remained in the bedroom for a long time, maintaining his grief-stricken posture just in case the staff was watching. But slowly, as the house fell silent, the facade melted away.
I watched on the monitor as Richard walked over to my vanity. He picked up a framed photograph of the two of us from our honeymoon in Positano. He stared at it for a long moment. There were no tears now. His face was entirely devoid of emotion.
Then, very deliberately, he laid the picture face down on the marble counter.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. The audio feed in the room picked up his voice, low and crisp.
"It's done," Richard said to whoever was on the other end. "The police bought the turbulence story. The pilot played his part perfectly. Make sure his offshore account gets the second half of the payment tonight. I want him out of the state by tomorrow morning."
A pause. Then, a slow, terrifying smile spread across Richard’s face.
"Yes. It's tragic," he said, dripping with sarcasm. "But the company is going to survive. I'll be stepping in as acting CEO by the end of the week. Call Sterling at the law firm. Tell him I want the will read immediately. I want my assets liquid."
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He hung up the phone and walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, pouring himself a glass of two-hundred-dollar scotch. He raised the glass to the dark water in a silent, mocking toast to his dead wife.
"Enjoy the scotch, Richard," I whispered to the screen, my voice cold as ice. "It's the last expensive thing you're ever going to drink."
