Chapter 3 - The Worried Husband’s LieAt 9:30 a.m., a sleek, black luxury SUV pulled up my long, winding driveway, its tires crunching heavily on the fresh snow. I watched from behind the lace curtains as Beckett Hale stepped out of the vehicle.
He was dressed in a pristine wool overcoat, his dark hair perfectly styled, his face holding a look of deep, practiced distress. He looked exactly like the worried, heartbroken husband he wanted the world to see. He walked up to my porch, took a deep breath to compose himself, and knocked gently on the door.
I waited ten seconds before opening it, letting my face fall into the submissive, tired expression of Margaret Vale, the fragile old widow.
"Beckett," I gasped, clutching my faded cardigan to my chest. "What are you doing here? It’s so cold."
"Margaret," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he stepped into my foyer, bringing the cold air with him. "Thank god you're here. Is Claire with you?"
"Claire?" I blinked, forcing a look of confusion. "No. Why? What’s happened?"
Beckett rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a heavy, ragged sigh. "She had another episode last night, Margaret. It was terrible. She started screaming, breaking things in the kitchen, claiming I was trying to poison her. Before I could call her doctor, she ran out into the storm. I’ve been driving around all night looking for her. I was so hoping she’d made it to your house."
"Oh my god," I whispered, putting a trembling hand over my mouth. "She ran out into the storm? In this weather?"
"I’m so sorry, Margaret," Beckett said, taking my hands in his. His grip was warm, but to me, it felt like a snake coiling around my wrists. "I’ve tried to protect her, to keep her episodes quiet so the town wouldn't gossip. But she’s getting worse. I think... I think we need to have her committed to a private facility where she can get professional help. For her own safety."
I looked into his polished, handsome face, and it took every ounce of my decades of training to keep from wrapping my fingers around his throat. He was laying the groundwork. He wanted me to agree to have her locked away so she could never tell the truth about his abuse.
"Yes, of course," I murmured, lowering my eyes. "If her doctor thinks it’s best. But Beckett... where could she be? If she’s out in the snow, she’ll freeze."
"I have the local sheriff and a search team looking for her right now," Beckett said, a subtle, triumphant glint appearing in his eyes. He believed I had swallowed his lie completely. "I’ll let you know the moment we find her. In the meantime, please stay inside. If she does show up, call me immediately."
"I will, Beckett," I said softly. "I will."
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As he turned and walked back to his car, I watched his posture change. The worried slouch disappeared, replaced by the confident, arrogant stride of a man who believed he had successfully controlled the narrative.
I closed the door and turned back to the quiet house. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a secure message from Richard Vance's office. The financial files had arrived.
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