For several seconds, I couldn't move.
The caller was still connected.
I heard someone breathing.
Then a man ordered:
“Keep him away from the phone.”
A scraping noise followed.
Something heavy moved across the floor.
Brynn began crying again.
“Please.”
The first man returned.
“Mrs. Marlowe, we have a problem.”
I forced myself to speak.
“Let Brynn go.”
“That depends on her mother.”
Regina knelt beside the coffee table.
Her face was wet.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“You know what we want.”
“No.”
“You made an arrangement.”
Regina shook her head.
“That arrangement is finished.”
The man laughed.
“You don't get to finish it.”
“Let my daughter go.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“For what?”
He paused.
Then said:
“Bring the remaining money.”
The call ended.
I stared at the cracked screen.
Thirty minutes.
Somewhere in Boston, Brynn was being held.
And somebody with Julian's voice had begged Regina to save her.
I turned toward my mother-in-law.
“Who was that?”
She looked up.
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie.”
“Tessa—”
“That was Julian.”
Her expression changed.
“Julian is dead.”
“Then explain what I heard.”
“Someone imitating him.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To frighten us.”
“Regina.”
She closed her eyes.
“Please.”
“You called him Julian.”
“I was upset.”
“You recognized him.”
She pressed her palm against the floor.
A shard of glass lay inches from her fingers.
I moved it away.
Even then, I couldn't stop myself.
Twelve years of marriage had taught me to take care of the people Julian loved.
Even when they didn't deserve it.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Ortiz.
STAY INSIDE. DO NOT LET REGINA LEAVE.
I looked at the front window.
An unmarked sedan had stopped across the street.
Another message followed.
WE ARE COMING TO THE DOOR.
Regina noticed.
“You called the police?”
“Before you arrived.”
Her fear became anger.
“Do you understand what you've done?”
“I'm trying to find Brynn.”
“You've made it worse.”
“Tell me how.”
Regina grabbed my wrist.
“Martin won't negotiate if he sees police.”
“Martin has already kidnapped your daughter.”
“He wasn't supposed to take her!”
Her words hung between us.
I pulled my hand away.
“Who was he supposed to take?”
She said nothing.
“Me?”
A tear slid down her cheek.
I waited.
Finally, she whispered:
“Yes.”
I had expected that answer.
Still, hearing it made something inside me go cold.
“Why?”
Regina rubbed her face.
“Because you wouldn't leave.”
“Leave what?”
“The house.”
I stared at her.
“You arranged my kidnapping over a house?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She shook her head.
“There are things you don't understand.”
“Explain them.”
“Julian found something.”
“What?”
“Financial records.”
My heart tightened.
He had argued with Regina shortly before his death.
I remembered the words.
You're not protecting the family.
You're protecting yourself.
At the time, Julian refused to tell me what they meant.
Now I wondered whether he'd been trying to keep me safe.
A knock sounded.
Three firm knocks.
“Tessa Marlowe,” Ortiz called.
“Boston Police.”
Regina caught my arm.
“Don't open it.”
I stepped away.
“It's already open, Regina.”
I unlocked the door.
Ortiz entered with Detective Evan Cho.
Neither looked surprised to see Regina.
Ortiz took in the broken groceries.
The phone.
My mother-in-law on the floor.
“Mrs. Marlowe,” she said to Regina.
“We need to talk.”
Regina struggled upright.
“My daughter has been kidnapped.”
“We know.”
“Then find her!”
“That's what we're doing.”
Ortiz looked toward me.
“Did the caller contact you?”
I nodded.
I handed over the phone.
“Brynn was alive.”
Ortiz's expression sharpened.
“And?”
I swallowed.
“Someone else spoke.”
“Who?”
I looked at Regina.
She turned away.
“It sounded like Julian.”
Cho stopped writing.
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“The deceased Julian Marlowe?”
I nodded.
Ortiz didn't dismiss me.
She didn't offer a comforting explanation.
Instead, she asked:
“Can you describe exactly what he said?”
I repeated it.
Every word.
“Mother. Don't let them hurt Brynn.”
Regina covered her face.
Ortiz studied her.
“Mrs. Marlowe, do you recognize that voice?”
“No.”
“Your daughter-in-law says you addressed him by name.”
“I was confused.”
“Was your son involved with Martin?”
Regina's head snapped upward.
“I don't know anyone named Martin.”
Ortiz placed a photograph on the coffee table.
A middle-aged man with close-cropped hair.
Broad shoulders.
A deep scar near his right eyebrow.
Regina looked away too quickly.
“Martin Vale,” Ortiz said.
“Former security contractor.”
No response.
“He worked for Marlowe Family Holdings.”
Regina's jaw tightened.
“He was dismissed years ago.”
“Actually, his contract ended seven months ago.”
Ortiz held her gaze.
“Six weeks before Julian's death.”
My stomach twisted.
I recognized the name.
Julian had mentioned Martin.
Not often.
Usually when discussing transport arrangements for his mother.
But I remembered one conversation.
Julian had come home late.
He stood at the kitchen counter.
Didn't remove his coat.
“Martin's been moving documents.”
“What documents?” I asked.
“Things that belong in our office.”
“Why?”
“That's what I intend to find out.”
I had forgotten that conversation.
Or perhaps I'd buried it beneath everything that happened afterward.
Now it returned with awful clarity.
“Martin worked for Julian,” I said.
Ortiz nodded.
“He did.”
“And Regina?”
“That's one of our questions.”
Regina rose abruptly.
“I need to go to the bank.”
Cho moved toward the door.
“No, ma'am.”
“You cannot keep me here.”
“We need your cooperation.”
“My daughter will die!”
Ortiz's voice remained steady.
“Then help us prevent that.”
For a moment, Regina looked ready to strike her.
Instead, she collapsed onto the sofa.
I moved away from her.
We had sat together in that room countless times.
For birthdays.
Christmas mornings.
Family dinners.
Julian used to make coffee while Regina complained about the traffic.
Now I looked at the woman beside me.
And wondered how many of those ordinary afternoons she'd spent planning to destroy me.
The detectives separated us.
Cho stayed with Regina.
Ortiz took me into Julian's study.
I hadn't changed much since his death.
His desk remained near the window.
Books lined the shelves.
A brass paperweight rested on a stack of correspondence.
His old reading glasses lay beside the lamp.
Sometimes I came into the room simply to sit.
The smell of his cedarwood cologne had faded.
But the room still belonged to him.
Ortiz closed the door.
“Tell me about the funeral.”
The question startled me.
“What about it?”
“Did you see your husband's body?”
I looked at her.
“No.”
“Was there a viewing?”
“Closed coffin.”
“Who arranged that?”
“Regina.”
“Why?”
“Because of the accident.”
Julian had supposedly died on a wet stretch of highway outside Boston.
A vehicle collision.
Then a fire.
The police told me his car struck a barrier before another vehicle hit it.
I received the call just after midnight.
By the time I reached the hospital, everything had already happened.
Regina took control.
She spoke with the funeral director.
The insurance company.
The family attorney.
I had been so numb that I barely understood the forms placed before me.
“I was told the injuries were severe,” I said.
Ortiz leaned against the desk.
“Who told you?”
“Regina.”
“Anyone else?”
“The funeral director.”
“Did you see the identification report?”
I shook my head.
“Regina said she'd handled it.”
Ortiz wrote something down.
“Did you ever speak directly with the medical examiner?”
“No.”
“Did anyone show you dental records?”
“No.”
She remained quiet.
My heartbeat increased.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I'm asking how the identification was established.”
I looked toward Julian's glasses.
“I buried him.”
“I understand.”
“I watched them lower the coffin.”
Ortiz met my eyes.
“That doesn't necessarily establish who was inside it.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I gripped the desk.
“You think Julian's alive?”
“I think we need to verify what happened.”
I wanted to shout.
To demand certainty.
Instead, I whispered:
“I would know his voice.”
Ortiz nodded.
“That may be important.”
She showed me a photograph of Martin's van.
Dark paint.
No company markings.
A partially obscured license plate.
“Have you seen this vehicle?”
I studied it.
Something about the shape bothered me.
“The rear window.”
“What about it?”
“There's a pale patch near the corner.”
“A repair?”
“Maybe.”
I remembered an afternoon three months earlier.
Regina had visited unexpectedly.
A black van waited outside.
I had assumed it belonged to a contractor.
“Regina came here in something like this.”
“When?”
“January.”
“Are you certain?”
“Not entirely.”
“Who was driving?”
“I couldn't see.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“But she told me she had borrowed a car.”
Ortiz made another note.
“Anything else?”
I hesitated.
There was something.
Julian's last argument with Regina.
His insistence about our financial records.
And one strange instruction.
“If anything happens,” he told me, “don't sign anything until you've spoken with Daniel.”
Daniel Mercer.
Julian's attorney.
But after the accident, Regina said Daniel was no longer representing the family.
She introduced another lawyer.
Peter Bell.
He brought forms to the townhouse.
I signed some.
Refused others.
The trust agreement was among those I refused.
“Julian told me to contact Daniel Mercer,” I said.
Ortiz looked interested.
“When?”
“Four days before he died.”
“Did you?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“He never returned my calls.”
“Do you have his number?”
“In Julian's contacts.”
Ortiz stood.
“Let's find it.”
Daniel Mercer answered on the third ring.
When Ortiz identified herself, he went silent.
Then he asked:
“Is Tessa safe?”
The question made my stomach drop.
Ortiz looked at me.
“She's with me.”
“Has Regina been arrested?”
“Not currently.”
Another silence.
Then Daniel said:
“You need to check the trust accounts immediately.”
Ortiz straightened.
“Why?”
“Because Julian discovered unauthorized transfers.”
“How much?”
“I don't have the final figure.”
“An estimate.”
“Several million dollars.”
I sank into Julian's chair.
Daniel continued.
“Julian believed someone was using the family trust to secure private loans.”
“Who?”
“He suspected his mother.”
My mouth went dry.
“And Martin Vale?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Martin handled confidential deliveries.”
“What deliveries?”
“Documents. Cashier's checks. Occasionally company records.”
“Did you warn Julian?”
“Yes.”
“Did he take action?”
“He requested an independent audit.”
“When?”
Daniel gave the date.
Five days before the crash.
I remembered that morning.
Julian had kissed me goodbye.
Then returned for his briefcase.
He stood in the doorway.
Looked at me.
And said:
“Whatever happens this week, remember I love you.”
I laughed.
“You sound dramatic.”
He smiled.
“Occupational hazard.”
That was the last ordinary morning we shared.
Ortiz put Daniel on speaker.
“Mr. Mercer, did Julian express concern for his safety?”
“Yes.”
“Did he believe anyone might hurt him?”
A pause.
“I'm afraid he did.”
“Who?”
Daniel answered quietly.
“He wouldn't give me a name.”
Then he added:
“But he asked me to protect Tessa if something happened.”
I covered my mouth.
All those months.
I had believed Julian left me without warning.
Now I wondered whether he'd been trying to warn me in the only way he could.
Outside the study, Regina began shouting.
“You can't take that!”
Ortiz opened the door.
Cho had found a second device inside Regina's handbag.
A small silver key fob.
Attached to it was a numbered storage tag.
Regina was struggling to retrieve it.
“That's mine!”
Cho held it away.
“What does this open?”
“Nothing important.”
“Then why are you upset?”
She refused to answer.
I stepped into the hallway.
Regina saw me.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“Please don't let them take it.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because Brynn—”
Her voice failed.
Ortiz examined the tag.
There was an address stamped beneath the number.
An industrial storage facility near the harbor.
She showed it to Cho.
He nodded.
Then Regina suddenly said:
“You cannot go there.”
“Why not?” Ortiz asked.
“Because Martin will know.”
“How?”
Regina looked down.
I followed her gaze.
Her handbag.
The phone.
The key.
Everything she'd brought into my house.
I felt a terrible realization forming.
“There's a tracker,” I said.
Regina closed her eyes.
Ortiz moved immediately.
She called for a technical unit.
Cho checked the bag.
A small electronic device had been sewn into its lining.
Regina began sobbing.
“He told me to keep it close.”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
“Why?”
“He said he'd know if I tried to run.”
Ortiz looked toward me.
Then back at Regina.
“You're going to tell us everything.”
Regina shook her head.
“He'll kill Brynn.”
“We can protect her.”
“You don't understand him.”
“Then help us understand.”
For the first time, Regina looked genuinely old.
She sat down.
Her hands rested in her lap.
And she whispered:
“Julian found out about the money.”
Ortiz waited.
“He knew I'd been borrowing from the trust.”
“Without authorization?”
Regina nodded.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“How much, Mrs. Marlowe?”
She began crying again.
“Nearly four million.”
I stared at her.
“Four million dollars?”
Regina wouldn't look at me.
“Where did it go?”
“Investments.”
“What investments?”
“Private developments. Property. Things that were supposed to recover.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
I thought of the trust agreement.
The pressure to surrender my rights.
The endless accusations that I wanted Julian's money.
“You needed me gone because I wouldn't sign.”
Regina nodded.
I stepped backward.
“You arranged to kill me.”
“No!”
Her voice rose.
“I told Martin to frighten you.”
I held up the phone.
“Make it look accidental.”
She stopped.
“You wrote those words.”
Regina looked toward Ortiz.
Then whispered:
“I wanted her out of the way.”
The sentence settled over the room.
Simple.
Ugly.
Irreversible.
Ortiz's radio crackled.
She listened.
Her expression changed.
Then she turned toward Cho.
“Harbor storage.”
“What about it?”
“They found the van.”
I moved toward her.
“Brynn?”
Ortiz held up her hand.
The radio continued.
Static.
A voice.
Then a terrible pause.
Finally, the officer reported:
“Vehicle's empty.”
My heart dropped.
“But we found evidence of recent occupancy.”
Ortiz asked for details.
The answer came moments later.
“Female belongings. Red cashmere fibers.”
I gripped the doorway.
The officer continued.
“And something else.”
Another pause.
“Medical supplies. Personal documents.”
Ortiz's face tightened.
“What kind of documents?”
The answer made every person in the room go still.
“Identification papers for Julian Marlowe.”
END PART 2
