Chapter 8 - THE MISTRESS WHO FINALLY TOLD THE TRUTH
“I DIDN'T STOP HIM, CLAIRE. I STOOD THERE AND WATCHED. IF YOU HATE ME FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, I DESERVE IT.”
Brooke Ellis was no longer wearing expensive jewelry.
Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
Dark circles surrounded her eyes.
And the white winter coat she'd worn outside my burning cabin was gone.
I watched her through a secure video connection arranged by Detective Ortiz.
Brooke had contacted an attorney and agreed to a formal interview with investigators.
She was not being offered an automatic pardon.
No one had promised that telling the truth would erase her responsibility.
She understood that.
At least, I hoped she did.
"I thought Grant loved me," she said quietly.
I almost ended the call.
Love.
What a small, ugly word it became when someone used it to justify cruelty.
"Did you know he intended to kill me?" I asked.
Brooke looked down.
"Not when our relationship began."
"That's not what I asked."
Her lips trembled.
"Yes."
The answer landed heavily.
"When?"
"About six weeks before the fire."
I closed my eyes.
Six weeks.
While I was shopping for a crib.
While I was choosing a name for my son.
While Grant was painting the nursery and telling me how excited he was to become a father.
Six weeks.
Brooke continued.
"He told me he'd discovered a way to secure the insurance payment and gain control of Northstar. At first, I thought he was talking about divorce and a financial settlement."
"When did you understand?"
"When he started discussing the cabin."
I took a slow breath.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
There it was.
The most important answer.
Not an excuse.
Not a complicated explanation.
Nothing.
Brooke had continued her affair.
She'd continued working beside Grant.
She'd attended meetings, reviewed contracts, and helped him prepare documents he intended to use against me.
Then she'd accompanied him to Cedar Ridge.
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"I was afraid."
"Of losing him?"
She shook her head.
"Of what he'd do to me if I refused."
I stared at her.
"And you decided my life was worth less than your fear."
Brooke began crying.
"Yes."
I didn't comfort her.
Forgiveness wasn't something she could demand simply because she'd finally admitted the truth.
Detective Ortiz moved the interview forward.
"Brooke, you told your attorney you have information about the fire."
Brooke nodded.
She reached into her handbag and removed a small storage device.
"I recorded part of what Grant said outside the cabin."
I froze.
"How?"
"When we got there, I realized he had locked the doors. I started recording on my phone because I was afraid of what he might do."
Ortiz leaned forward.
"Did you tell anyone?"
"No."
"Did you make copies?"
"One. I kept it because I thought Grant might turn on me."
I stared at her.
Brooke hadn't preserved the recording because she cared about my safety.
She had preserved it to protect herself.
That distinction mattered.
Ortiz accepted the device for forensic examination.
She explained that investigators would verify the recording, determine whether it was legally admissible, and compare it with other evidence.
Brooke's attorney nodded.
Then Ortiz asked another question.
"Who else knew Grant planned the fire?"
Brooke hesitated.
"Martin Kessler."
My stomach tightened.
"Are you certain?" I asked.
She looked directly into the camera.
"Martin didn't know every detail. But he knew Grant needed Claire removed from Northstar."
"Removed?"
"Grant told him that by the end of the month, Claire wouldn't be standing in their way."
I felt a wave of nausea.
My husband's business partner had understood enough to be concerned.
Instead of protecting me, he'd continued helping Grant move company money.
"Martin was supposed to handle the financial side," Brooke said.
"What financial side?" Ortiz asked.
"Ridgepoint. The account transfers. The new leadership resolution."
Brooke swallowed.
"Grant said Martin could keep the company functioning while he settled the insurance claim."
I sat back.
Suddenly, everything seemed horrifyingly clear.
Grant wanted thirty million dollars and control of my shares.
Martin wanted access to Northstar's remaining assets.
And neither man had cared what happened to me, my baby, or the patients who relied on our aircraft.
Brooke looked toward the camera again.
"Claire, there's something else."
I didn't answer.
"The night of the fire, Grant wasn't only afraid you might escape."
My skin prickled.
"He was afraid you'd already discovered the money."
"Why?"
"Because someone had requested an independent audit."
I frowned.
"Who?"
"Your mother arranged for periodic independent reviews of major maintenance reserves. The next report was due within weeks."
I remembered signing the annual audit engagement.
I hadn't thought anything of it.
But Grant apparently had.
"He knew the transfers would be discovered," Brooke continued. "He said the audit would ruin everything."
I closed my eyes.
So that was the timeline.
Not a sudden moment of cruelty.
Not a spontaneous argument.
A deliberate calculation.
Grant had realized that his financial scheme was approaching exposure.
And he had decided murder was a solution.
After the interview, I sat alone for a while.
Thomas eventually entered.
"How did it go?"
"She admitted knowing."
He nodded slowly.
"That must have been hard."
"I used to think the worst part was that Grant didn't love me."
I looked at him.
"But that's not the worst part."
"What is?"
"He looked at Noah and decided our lives were worth less than money."
Thomas sat beside me.
We remained quiet for several minutes.
Then he said:
"Your son won't grow up believing that."
I looked at him.
"How do you know?"
"Because he'll grow up with a mother who teaches him otherwise."
That evening, Ortiz called again.
The preliminary examination of Brooke's recording had revealed audible statements consistent with my account.
Investigators were working to authenticate the file and its metadata.
But Brooke had also provided something more useful.
A list of meetings.
Dates.
Private financial conversations.
And the name of a company employee who might have preserved original maintenance records before they were altered.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Benjamin Rivera. Senior aircraft maintenance technician."
I recognized him immediately.
Ben had worked for Northstar for nearly twenty years.
He was the kind of man who remembered every pilot's birthday and refused to release an aircraft until he was satisfied it was safe.
"Have you spoken to him?"
"Not yet. We're arranging it."
A few minutes later, my secure phone received a message from an unknown sender.
It contained a photograph.
The photograph showed Noah in his hospital bassinet.
It had been taken from outside the nursery.
My blood turned to ice.
May you like
Beneath it was a single sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD, CLAIRE.
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