Chapter 3 - The Invitation ListTwo weeks later, the snow outside the private rehabilitation facility had turned into a slushy, grey sludge, but inside my secured suite, the atmosphere was as sharp and clear as polished glass.
Clara was thriving. She had gained a full pound, her tiny cheeks were rosy and plump, and she slept peacefully in a high-tech bassinet beside my bed, completely oblivious to the elaborate storm her father was currently engineering.
According to Detective Vance’s daily briefings, Michael had spared absolutely no expense for the memorial service.
It was scheduled for Saturday morning at St. Jude’s Episcopal Church in downtown McLean—the grand, historic cathedral where we had been married seven years ago. Invitations had been sent out to over three hundred high-society guests, business partners, politicians, and family members. A catered reception was booked at the exclusive Riverwood Country Club immediately following the service.
Michael had even commissioned a custom mahogany casket, lined with white silk, to be placed prominently at the front of the nave.
An empty box, built to hold nothing more than a few mementos and his own theatrical performance.
“The church will be packed to capacity,” Vance said, stepping into my room on a Thursday afternoon carrying a sleek black garment bag over his shoulder. He laid it gently across the armchair. “Your brother Tyler flew in from California yesterday. He looks genuinely devastated, by the way. He had no idea what Michael was really up to.”
“Tyler is weak, but he’s not malicious,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my sweater. “He believed whatever Michael told him. He’ll find out the truth soon enough.”
Vance unzipped the garment bag, revealing a striking, impeccably tailored black mourning dress, complete with a sheer, elegant black veil designed to cover the upper half of my face.
“This just arrived from your personal vault in Arlington, per your instructions,” Vance noted, stepping back. “Along with the updated legal documents from your grandfather’s estate attorney.”
I reached over, sliding my legs carefully over the edge of the bed. My left leg was healing remarkably well, though I still relied on a sleek, carbon-fiber cane to walk. With every step I took across the linoleum floor, the dull ache in my bones served as a permanent, burning reminder of what had happened on that mountain ridge.
Good. I didn't ever want to forget.
“How are security arrangements looking for Saturday?” I asked, testing my weight on the cane.
“Absolute lockdown,” Vance assured me with a confident grin. “State police officers will be stationed at every exit of St. Jude’s. No one leaves until you give the word. And the media vans will be parked outside by the hundreds, hungry for a tragedy.”
“They’re going to get a tragedy,” I murmured, running my fingers over the dark fabric of the mourning dress. “Just not the one Michael planned.”
Vance walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He looked back at me, a mixture of deep professional respect and mild apprehension in his eyes.
“You know, Mrs. Carter, most people who survive an attempt on their life run away as far as they can.”
May you like
I looked up, meeting his gaze steadily.
“Running away leaves the monster in your house,” I said quietly. “I prefer to hunt him down in broad daylight.”
