Chapter 3 - THE SECOND MISTRESS
The silence in the foyer was deafening.
Patrick froze on the top stair, his hand gripping the wooden banister so hard his knuckles were white. He looked from Helen, standing by the front door, to Diane, who was shaking in her silk robe, and finally down at the copies of the wire transfers resting on the entryway table.
Helen couldn't breathe. The air in the room felt thick and toxic.
Vanessa Collins wasn't Patrick's only secret. The young, beautiful marketing director had been the flashy distraction. But the real betrayal—the deepest, most agonizing knife in the back—had been happening right under Helen's nose with the woman she trusted most in the world.
"Helen," Patrick started, taking a slow step down the stairs. "It's not what you think."
Helen let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. "Not what I think? You're standing in my best friend's house, in a bathrobe, the morning after I left you for parading your other mistress in front of me at your birthday dinner!"
Diane covered her face with her hands, sobbing loudly. "I'm sorry, Helen. I'm so sorry. It just happened. We were both so lonely..."
"Lonely?" Helen snapped, her voice cracking with fury. "I was working double shifts at the hospital to pay the mortgage on the house you were sleeping with him in! You ate Thanksgiving dinner at my table! You held my hand at my mother's funeral!"
"Helen, stop," Patrick commanded, his voice dropping into the authoritative tone he always used to win arguments. He descended the rest of the stairs, standing between Helen and Diane. "You're upset. You're not thinking clearly. Let's go home and discuss this like adults."
"I am never going back to that house with you," Helen said, her voice shaking but resolute. "And I'm going to the police, Patrick. Diane just confessed to the hit and run on Route 9 three years ago. She told me about the hush money."
Patrick's authoritative mask slipped. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed in his eyes. He whipped around to glare at Diane.
"You told her?!" Patrick hissed, his voice lethal.
Diane shrank back against the wall. "She had the wire transfers, Patrick! Robert Hayes found them! I had to tell her something to explain the two hundred thousand dollars!"
Helen stared at them, her mind spinning. I had to tell her something.
"Wait," Helen said, her nurse's intuition kicking in, catching the subtle shift in Diane's phrasing. She looked at the terrified woman backed against the floral wallpaper. "To explain the money? Diane... was there really a hit and run?"
Diane refused to meet her eyes. Patrick took a step toward Helen, reaching out a placating hand.
"Helen, she's hysterical. Let's just leave," Patrick urged, his voice tight.
"Don't touch me!" Helen shoved his hand away, stepping closer to Diane. "Diane, look at me! Did he hit someone on Route 9, or did you make that up to cover why he paid you?"
Diane burst into fresh tears, sliding down the wall to sit on the hardwood floor. "There was no hit and run," she wept. "He didn't hit anyone. I made it up because I panicked."
Helen felt a cold dread wash over her. If there was no hit and run, then the hush money was for something else. Something worse.
"Then why did he pay you two hundred thousand dollars, Diane?" Helen demanded, her voice echoing in the quiet house. "And why did he need you to be the executor of my will?"
Patrick lunged forward, grabbing Helen's arm roughly. "That's enough! We are leaving, right now!"
"Let go of my mother!"
The front door burst open. Molly stood on the porch, her cell phone in her hand and a fierce, protective fury in her eyes. She had clearly followed Helen from the house.
Patrick dropped Helen's arm as if he had been burned. "Molly, this is none of your business."
"It became my business when you stole my wedding fund to pay for Vanessa's apartment," Molly spat, stepping into the foyer and standing squarely beside Helen. She looked at Diane on the floor, then at Patrick in his bathrobe. "Wow, Dad. You really hit the jackpot on clichés, didn't you? The young secretary and the middle-aged best friend."
Patrick's face turned purple with rage. "You will respect me in this—"
"I don't respect you," Molly interrupted coldly. "And neither does Robert Hayes. He called Mom's cell phone while she was driving here. You left it on the kitchen counter."
Patrick froze. "Robert called?"
Molly pulled Helen's phone from her pocket and held it up. "He wanted to warn Mom. The forensic auditors found another hidden account this morning. An offshore trust. And Dad? They found out where the initial deposit came from."
Patrick seemed to stop breathing.
Helen looked at her daughter. "Molly, what did Robert find?"
"Ten years ago, Dad took out a massive life insurance policy on you, Mom," Molly said, her voice shaking with a mixture of anger and horror. "A policy worth four million dollars. But he didn't use his name as the primary beneficiary."
Molly looked down at Diane, who was now weeping silently into her hands.
"He named Diane," Molly revealed. "And according to the documents Robert found, if Mom dies, Diane gets the four million, but she has a legally binding side-agreement to funnel eighty percent of it into Dad's offshore account."
Helen stumbled back, hitting the front door. The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with sickening clarity.
The fake hit-and-run story Diane told was a desperate lie to hide the terrifying truth. The two hundred thousand dollars wasn't hush money for a car accident.
It was a down payment.
"You were planning to kill me," Helen whispered, staring at the man she had loved for thirty-four years.
Patrick shook his head frantically. "No! Helen, no! That's insane! It was just a financial strategy to avoid estate taxes! I would never hurt you!"
"Then why did you insist she name Diane as the executor of her personal trust four months ago?" Molly demanded, her voice rising. "You needed Diane to control the narrative when Mom died. You needed her to clear the payout without anyone asking questions!"
"It was a tax shelter!" Patrick shouted, desperate and cornered. "Robert is twisting the paperwork to push me out of my own firm!"
Helen didn't hear him. She looked at Diane, who was refusing to look up from the floor.
"Diane," Helen said, her voice eerily calm. "Did you know?"
Diane sobbed, burying her face in her knees. "He told me he had a plan, Helen. He said we could be together. He said it would look like a natural heart attack. He had pills. I didn't want to do it, I swear! But he said if I didn't help him, he would tell the police about what I did to my husband!"
The silence in the room was absolute.
Patrick’s face went perfectly slack.
Helen stared at Diane. "Your husband... died of a massive heart attack five years ago."
Diane nodded slowly, her whole body trembling.
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Before anyone could say another word, Molly raised her cell phone, showing the screen to Patrick. The call timer was running. She hadn't just been holding the phone.
"I dialed 911 before I walked in," Molly said, her voice shaking but victorious. "They heard everything. And the sirens are already on the street."
