Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO NEVER MADE IT HOME
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY ABOUT MY WIFE?”
Adrian Kingsley's voice was so quiet that I almost didn't recognize it.
Across his desk, the hospital telephone remained on speaker.
Frank Miller struggled to breathe.
“I'm sorry, boss. I should have told you five years ago.”
Adrian gripped the edge of his desk.
“Tell me now.”
I stood beside the fireplace, wrapped in Adrian's black jacket, my injured heel throbbing against the carpet.
Twenty minutes earlier, I had been ordered to walk barefoot out of this mansion.
Now I was listening to a conversation that could destroy the woman who had humiliated me.
Frank coughed.
“Delilah offered me two hundred thousand dollars to say your first wife was responsible for her own death.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
“Why would she need you to lie? The investigation was closed.”
“Because somebody found the original photographs.”
Silence.
Then Adrian asked, “What photographs?”
“The ones taken at the Prescott freight yard the night Mara died.”
Mara Kingsley.
I knew the name.
Her portrait hung in the upstairs hallway, although Delilah had ordered the housekeeping staff to stop polishing its frame.
Mara had been Adrian's wife for nine years.
Five years earlier, her car had gone off Laurel Creek Bridge during a storm.
Police believed she had been speeding.
An unopened bottle of prescription medication had been found in her purse, and rumors spread that she had been emotionally unstable.
The newspapers called it a tragic accident.
Adrian had never remarried.
Until Delilah.
“Frank,” Adrian said, “Mara was driving alone.”
“No, sir.”
The answer came immediately.
I watched Adrian's expression change.
Frank continued.
“That evening, she went to the Prescott freight yard because three drivers had reported defective brakes on trucks scheduled to leave before midnight.”
Adrian frowned.
“She told me she was visiting her sister.”
“She told you that because she didn't want you involved until she had proof.”
Adrian looked toward the photograph on his desk.
It showed a smiling brunette standing beside him at a summer picnic.
“She was investigating my company?”
“Not just yours. Prescott Freight was moving the loads, and someone had been changing the inspection reports.”
Adrian stared at the telephone.
For the first time, I saw uncertainty replace anger.
Then Frank whispered something that made my stomach tighten.
“Boss, I saw Mara's car at the freight yard after the time she supposedly drove onto that bridge.”
Adrian straightened.
“What?”
“There was a tow vehicle beside it. Two men were working near the passenger door.”
“Why didn't you report that?”
“I tried to tell your security office. They said you already knew. Then my shift supervisor warned me I'd lose my job if I kept asking questions.”
Adrian's jaw hardened.
“Who was your supervisor?”
“Worked for the Prescotts. Owen Mercer.”
I remembered the name.
Owen managed Delilah's transportation arrangements and occasionally drove her Mercedes.
Adrian reached for a notebook.
“Are you telling me Owen was involved in what happened to Mara?”
“I'm telling you he was there.”
Frank paused.
“And Delilah was there, too.”
My fingers tightened around Adrian's jacket.
Delilah had always spoken about Mara with carefully rehearsed sympathy.
She called her Adrian's greatest heartbreak.
She even arranged flowers for the anniversary of her death.
But Frank was describing something entirely different.
Adrian asked, “Why would Delilah approach you tonight?”
“Last week, I found a copy of one of the original photographs in an old maintenance box. I asked Owen about it. Somehow Delilah heard.”
“Where is the photograph?”
“Under the lining of my work coat.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Natalie, did you see Frank's coat?”
I nodded.
“It was still on him when the ambulance came.”
He immediately instructed his security chief, Samuel Price, to contact the hospital and make sure the clothing was preserved for investigators.
Frank's breathing grew uneven.
A nurse approached his bed.
“Mr. Miller needs to rest now.”
“Frank,” Adrian said urgently, “one more question.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Did Mara know Delilah?”
The answer took several seconds.
“Yes.”
Adrian shook his head.
“That's impossible. Delilah told me they had never met.”
Frank's voice dropped.
“They met three times that week. Mara was afraid of her.”
The nurse ended the call.
Adrian remained completely still.
Outside the study, the engagement celebration continued.
Somewhere beneath those chandeliers, Delilah was smiling at the guests who believed she would soon become Mrs. Kingsley.
Adrian opened a drawer and removed a small velvet box.
Inside lay Mara's wedding ring.
“I spent five years believing she was running away from our marriage that night,” he said.
His voice cracked slightly.
“She'd packed a suitcase. She'd taken money from our joint account. I thought she'd finally decided she'd had enough of me.”
I looked at the ring.
“Maybe the suitcase wasn't for leaving you.”
He raised his eyes.
“Maybe she was planning to stay somewhere safe while she investigated.”
Before Adrian could answer, Samuel entered the study.
He carried an evidence bag containing Frank's torn coat.
“The hospital released his belongings to the police, sir. They allowed me to photograph what was inside.”
He placed a printed photograph on the desk.
It showed a small, faded picture recovered from beneath the coat lining.
Three people stood outside a freight warehouse.
Mara Kingsley.
Owen Mercer.
And Delilah Prescott.
But it wasn't their faces that frightened me.
May you like
It was the handwritten date on the back.
The photograph had been taken forty-seven minutes after Mara was supposedly already dead.
