Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
Alexander Whitmore stared at the ultrasound as if the piece of paper had just brought a ghost back into the ballroom.
His fingers shook.
Not slightly.
Enough that everyone standing near him could see it.
The name printed across the top was unmistakable.
ELENA WHITMORE.
His first wife.
The woman whose funeral he had attended three years earlier.
The woman whose empty side of the bed he had stared at for almost a year before finally forcing himself to move forward.
The woman Vanessa had eventually convinced him to stop grieving.
Alexander looked at Vanessa.
“Where is she?”
Vanessa said nothing.
“Where is Elena?”
Three hundred guests remained silent.
Vanessa’s fake belly suddenly seemed almost insignificant.
Cynthia stood beside her sister, clutching the garment bag against her chest.
Dr. Samuel Pierce was still blocked by two security officers near the ballroom doors.
My daughter Sophie held tightly to my hand.
I could feel her trembling.
I crouched beside her.
“You’re okay.”
Sophie nodded.
But she kept watching Vanessa.
“She’s scared, Mom.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Sophie lowered her voice.
“She’s not scared of Mr. Whitmore.”
I looked at her.
“Then who?”
Sophie pointed.
Not at Cynthia.
Not at Dr. Pierce.
At an elderly man sitting at the Whitmore family table.
Charles Whitmore.
Alexander’s father.
The chairman emeritus of Whitmore Holdings.
Charles had barely moved since the ultrasound appeared.
His face revealed nothing.
But his right hand was gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Alexander noticed it too.
“Dad?”
Charles slowly stood.
“Alexander, this is neither the time nor the place.”
Alexander laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“My dead wife apparently had an ultrasound six months ago.”
He held up the image.
“I think we’re past worrying about appropriate timing.”
Charles looked toward the guests.
“Clear the ballroom.”
“No.”
Alexander’s answer was immediate.
Vanessa looked at him.
“Alexander, please.”
“No one leaves.”
His gaze moved toward me.
“You control hotel security?”
“Yes.”
“Lock the exterior ballroom doors.”
Charles slammed his palm against the table.
“You will do no such thing.”
Alexander turned toward his father.
“Why?”
Charles froze.
Alexander stepped closer.
“Why are you suddenly so desperate for everyone to leave?”
The question hung between them.
Then Sophie tugged my hand again.
“Mom.”
She pointed toward one of the ballroom monitors mounted near the service corridor.
“There.”
A security feed showed the underground parking garage.
A black sedan had just started moving.
I recognized the vehicle.
It belonged to Charles Whitmore.
Someone was driving it toward the exit.
Alexander saw it.
“Stop that car.”
I radioed security.
“Garage team, close Gate Two.”
The steel barrier began lowering.
The sedan accelerated.
Guests gasped as the vehicle stopped inches before the gate.
Security surrounded it.
A moment later, the driver stepped out.
He was Charles Whitmore’s private assistant.
And there was someone in the back seat.
A woman.
Thin.
Pale.
Terrified.
Alexander moved toward the monitor.
He stopped breathing.
The woman slowly lifted her face toward the garage camera.
Alexander whispered one word.
“Elena.”
May you like
His first wife was alive.
And she was inside his father’s car.
