Chapter 7: My Husband's Death Was Never an Accident
Nobody moved when the detective mentioned Charles's death.
The abandoned building seemed to grow colder around us. Dust drifted through a shaft of sunlight, settling over the ledger that had exposed Richard Delano's secrets.
I looked at David Mercer.
He had gone completely still.
"Did you know about this?"" I asked.
"No," he answered immediately.
"Eleanor, I swear to you, I knew nothing about an investigation into Charles's death.""
Richard, however, looked as though he had just seen a coffin open.
Faith noticed.
"Dad?"" she whispered.
"Why does that scare you?""
He didn't answer.
Three more knocks sounded against the door.
David straightened his jacket and walked toward the entrance.
"I'll speak to the detective first.""
"No," I said.
He turned.
"Whatever happened to Charles, I'm done allowing other people to decide how much truth I can handle.""
I walked past him and opened the door myself.
Two detectives stood outside. The first was a tall Black woman in her early forties, with a badge clipped to her belt and a leather folder beneath her arm. The second was a younger man carrying a tablet.
"Mrs. Whitmore?"" the woman asked.
"Yes.""
"I'm Detective Harris. This is Detective Coleman. We'd like to ask you some questions about your husband's final months.""
"Then come inside.""
Detective Harris glanced at Richard.
"Mr. Delano. We need to speak with you as well.""
Richard forced a smile.
"Of course. I'm happy to cooperate.""
Faith let out a bitter laugh.
"You've been happy to cooperate with absolutely nobody for thirty years.""
"Faith, not now.""
"Why? Because the police are here?""
Detective Harris opened her folder.
"Before we begin, I need everyone to understand that we're conducting a preliminary inquiry. No one is being arrested at this time.""
She looked directly at Richard.
"However, we have obtained records that raise questions about the circumstances surrounding Charles Whitmore's death.""
My stomach tightened.
Charles had died six years earlier after his car left a winding road in the Santa Monica Mountains during a storm.
The official report had classified it as an accident.
I had buried him, mourned him, and spent years learning how to live in a house where his laughter no longer echoed through the hallways.
There had never been a reason to doubt the report.
Or so I had believed.
"What questions?"" I asked.
Detective Harris took a photograph from her folder.
It showed Charles's silver sedan resting against a tree, its front end crushed, rainwater shining on the asphalt.
"We recently reviewed financial records connected to a separate fraud investigation," she explained.
"Those records led us to a witness who claims your husband was being threatened shortly before his death.""
I stared at the photograph.
"Who threatened him?""
"We're still verifying the witness's account.""
Richard shifted his weight.
Detective Harris noticed.
"Mr. Delano, did you meet with Charles during the month before his death?""
"No.""
The answer came too quickly.
Detective Coleman tapped something on his tablet.
"Your company records show that you attended a private meeting with Mr. Whitmore eleven days before the accident.""
Richard's mouth tightened.
"That meeting was unrelated to the accident.""
"Then you did meet him.""
"I may have attended a business meeting. That doesn't mean I remember every detail.""
Faith stared at her father.
"You told me you hadn't spoken to Charles in years.""
Richard turned on her.
"You're twisting everything!""
"No," she replied.
"I'm finally checking whether anything you say is true.""
Detective Harris stepped between them.
"Mr. Delano, we need a complete account of that meeting.""
Richard looked at me.
For one brief moment, the confidence he wore like an expensive suit slipped away.
"I went to ask Charles to settle the old partnership dispute," he admitted.
"He refused.""
"What happened next?"" Detective Harris asked.
"We argued. I left.""
"Did you threaten him?""
"No.""
"Did you know he was preparing to submit evidence concerning the missing escrow funds?""
Richard's silence lasted several seconds.
"Yes.""
The detective made a note.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
"What evidence?""
Detective Harris looked at me carefully.
"Mrs. Whitmore, we believe Charles had discovered that money was being moved through several companies connected to Mr. Delano. He had arranged to meet a financial investigator the morning after his death.""
I felt the room tilt.
"Why wasn't I told?""
"The information only came to light recently.""
David stepped forward.
"Was the accident investigated for possible tampering?""
"The original investigation found no definitive evidence of foul play. We're reviewing it again because new information has emerged.""
Richard suddenly spoke.
"This is absurd. You're suggesting I killed him because of a business dispute?""
"We're asking questions," Detective Harris replied.
"Well, ask someone else. I didn't kill Charles.""
Nobody had accused him of doing so directly.
His outburst filled the silence that followed.
Faith looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"Dad, did you hurt him?""
Richard's face crumpled for an instant before anger returned.
"No!""
"Then tell us everything.""
He looked at his daughter.
For a moment, I thought he might finally surrender the truth.
Instead, he reached for his briefcase.
"I'm leaving.""
Detective Coleman stepped in front of him.
"Mr. Delano, we haven't finished.""
"You cannot detain me without cause.""
"You're free to leave," Detective Harris said.
"But if you do, we'll expect you to respond to a formal interview request.""
Richard shoved past Coleman and stormed toward the door.
Faith didn't follow.
Neither did I.
As the detectives questioned David about the trust documents, my mind returned to the eleven days before Charles died.
He had been restless then.
He had taken calls in his study and stopped speaking whenever I entered. One night, I found him standing beside the kitchen window, staring into the darkness with a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand.
When I asked what was wrong, he kissed my forehead and told me he was tired.
I had believed him.
I would spend the rest of my life wondering whether that had been the moment I could have saved him.
Detective Harris closed her folder.
"Mrs. Whitmore, there's one more thing.""
She removed a small evidence photograph.
It showed a black leather notebook lying inside a plastic evidence bag.
"Do you recognize this?""
My breath caught.
Charles had carried that notebook everywhere during the final year of his life. It contained names, dates, and numbers he never explained.
I had assumed it was among the personal effects returned to me after his death.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Where did you find it?""
"It was recovered from a storage unit rented under a false identity. The unit was connected to one of the companies involved in the escrow transfers.""
David stepped closer.
"Has the notebook been examined?""
"Not completely.""
Detective Harris turned the photograph over.
A single sentence had been highlighted on the page visible through the evidence bag.
If anything happens to me, find the second beneficiary.
I looked at David.
He stared back at me, visibly shaken.
"Who is the second beneficiary?"" I asked.
Detective Harris shook her head.
"We're hoping you can help us determine that.""
Faith suddenly stood.
"I know.""
Every face turned toward her.
She pulled the brass key from her handbag.
"My grandmother told me there were two people Charles wanted to protect. She said one was Eleanor.""
Her voice trembled.
"And the other was someone Richard had spent his entire life pretending didn't exist.""
I stared at her.
"Who?""
Faith looked toward the doorway through which her father had disappeared.
"My uncle.""
The room went silent.
Richard had a brother.
A brother who had vanished decades ago.
A brother whose name had been erased from family photographs and conversations.
And according to Charles's final note, that man might still be alive.
Detective Harris closed her folder.
"Mrs. Whitmore, we need to locate him before Mr. Delano does.""
She paused.
"Because if he is the second beneficiary, he may be the only person who can prove what happened to your husband.""
That evening, I returned home to find an envelope waiting on my doorstep.
No stamp.
No return address.
Only my name, written in a familiar hand.
I carried it into Charles's study and opened it beneath the desk lamp.
Inside was a photograph of a man standing beside a river, older now but unmistakably the younger man from the picture Faith had found.
On the back were six words.
Eleanor, Richard knows where I am.
Beneath them was a phone number.
May you like
And a final warning.
Don't trust David Mercer.
