Chapter 8 - The Bride Who Finally Asked Questions
I wanted to get in my car and drive straight back to Nadia's apartment.
Instead, I called Laila.
“Are you and your mother somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“We have. Our attorney also notified Agent Chen.”
“Good.”
I paused.
“Laila, listen carefully. Don't try to find out who sent that envelope yourselves.”
“I know.”
Her voice was quiet.
“I'm tired of being frightened.”
I looked at the traffic moving outside my hotel window.
“So am I.”
She gave a small laugh.
“You don't sound frightened.”
“That's because I learned to sound calm when I wasn't.”
After we ended the call, I called Mara Chen.
She confirmed that the threat had been referred to the appropriate authorities and that protective arrangements were being discussed.
I wanted to ask a dozen questions.
I didn't.
The investigation needed boundaries.
So did I.
Three days later, Gwyneth appeared at my house.
She stood on the porch wearing jeans, a plain blue sweater, and sunglasses.
I'd almost never seen my sister without carefully styled hair or expensive clothes.
She looked exhausted.
When I opened the door, she removed her sunglasses.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped aside.
She walked into my living room, looking around as though she'd never really noticed it before.
My home was modest compared with the Fairbanks estate.
A three-bedroom house.
Bookshelves.
Family photographs.
A small garden where I grew tomatoes badly.
My father had helped me build the back deck before he died.
Gwyneth stared at a framed picture of him.
“I forgot you had this.”
It showed Archie standing between us at a family cookout.
I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
Gwyneth was seventeen.
My father had one arm around each of us.
“He looks happy,” she whispered.
“He was.”
She sat down.
I waited.
Finally, she spoke.
“Rhys moved into a hotel.”
I nodded.
“I heard you were having problems.”
“He says he doesn't want to drag me into the investigation.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he doesn't trust me.”
I considered that.
“Do you trust him?”
She looked away.
“I don't know.”
“Then perhaps that's where you should start.”
Her eyes filled.
“You make everything sound like a military briefing.”
I sat across from her.
“Gwyneth, you came here for a reason.”
She reached into her handbag and removed a folder.
“I think Gregory used our wedding.”
I didn't touch it.
“What do you mean?”
She opened the folder on her lap.
“After the reception, the hotel emailed me the final invoices. Gregory's assistant had asked them to send copies to his corporate office.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because part of the wedding was paid through a company account.”
I stared at her.
She hurried on.
“Gregory said it was easier for his accountants. He told us we'd receive a wedding gift through one of the family trusts.”
“And?”
“I started asking questions.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I know that sounds obvious now, but I didn't question anything before. His family is rich. I thought rich people just handled money differently.”
She turned a page.
“One payment went to a public-relations consulting firm.”
“What for?”
“That's what I wanted to know.”
She swallowed.
“The description mentioned media monitoring and reputation management.”
I sat straighter.
“Was the payment connected to the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded.
“Gregory's assistant sent me a revised expense summary by mistake. It included a planning note.”
She looked down at the page.
“It referred to you.”
My hands remained still.
“What did it say?”
Gwyneth hesitated.
“Something about managing reputational risk involving a senior Army official.”
I stared at her.
“Before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
My sister's face crumpled.
“I think they were expecting trouble.”
I took a slow breath.
“Gwyneth, these documents may be relevant to an active investigation. You need to preserve them and speak to an attorney.”
“I already contacted one.”
“Good.”
She looked genuinely surprised.
“Aren't you going to look?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not the investigator.”
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she began to cry.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
Just quiet tears that seemed to embarrass her.
“I was horrible to you.”
I didn't answer.
“At the wedding. I knew they put you near the kitchen. I thought it was funny.”
The admission hurt more than I expected.
“Why?”
She wiped her face.
“Because you always made me feel small.”
I stared at her.
“I never tried to.”
“I know that now.”
She took a shaky breath.
“When we were kids, Dad was always talking about how brave you were. How smart you were. How you were going to do something important.”
“Gwyneth—”
“Mom said I was beautiful. That was my thing. You were the smart, brave one. I was the pretty one.”
I looked at my younger sister and saw something I hadn't recognized before.
She'd spent her whole life being praised for something she was terrified of losing.
I had spent mine being criticized for something I refused to abandon.
Neither of us had learned how to be sisters.
She continued.
“When Gregory offered to pay for the wedding, it felt like I'd finally done something impressive.”
“Marrying someone wealthy isn't an accomplishment.”
“I know.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“I'm starting to understand that.”
I softened my voice.
“Do you love Rhys?”
“Yes.”
“Then start there.”
She looked at the folder.
“There's something else.”
I waited.
She swallowed.
“Gregory didn't just pay for media monitoring.”
“What else?”
“He had someone reviewing your public military biography, your awards, and every news article about you.”
I felt a chill.
“Why?”
“I think he wanted to know how people might react if you spoke against him.”
She pulled out one final page.
“I found this in the planning materials.”
It was a proposed media response prepared before the reception.
The first sentence accused me of disrupting a family celebration after a disagreement about a lucrative post-retirement position.
The document was dated two days before the wedding.
I stared at the date.
That was three days after I'd reported Gregory's offer.
My sister whispered:
“He was planning to blame you before anything happened.”
Then she pointed to a handwritten note at the bottom.
It referred to the wedding seating arrangements.
Next to the words Merrick placement approved, someone had written two initials.
P.M.
Pamela Merrick.
Our mother.
May you like
Gwyneth looked at me with a devastated expression.
“Sloane, I think Mom helped him set you up.”
