Chapter 2 - The Flash of Truth
The red recording dot glowed softly in the corner of my screen. I didn’t blink. I didn’t flinch. I kept the lens pointed steadily at Grant as he scrambled through congealed gravy and broken glass, clutching his bruised ribs.
"Nora!" Patricia shrieked, clawing at my sleeve with fingers that trembled like dry leaves. "Put that away! Stop recording! He's killing your husband! Call the police, you cold-hearted girl!"
I shook her off with one swift, practiced movement of my elbow. Patricia stumbled against the decorative hall tree, sending an umbrella rack clattering to the floor. She stared at me, wide-eyed, seeing something in my face she had never encountered in seven years of marriage: absolute, frigid detachment.
"Get up, Grant," Ethan Cole rumbled.
His voice didn't rise in volume, but the low baritone vibrated right through the floorboards. He stepped over the carcass of the glazed ham, his massive frame blocking out the overhead chandelier. He was breathing heavily, his knuckles split and bleeding, but his eyes were sharp, calculating, and laser-focused on my husband.
"I—I didn't know she was married!" Grant stammered, his voice climbing an octave into a pathetic squeak. He held his hands up in surrender, smears of cranberry sauce staining his white cuffs. "I swear to God, Ethan! She told me she was divorced! She told me you died two years ago in a skiing accident!"
From behind the overturned armchair, Vanessa let out a strangled gasp. "Grant, shut your mouth!"
Ethan paused. A dark, humorless smirk curved his lips. He slowly turned his head toward his wife. "A skiing accident, Nessa? Is that the story you tell your boys when you buy them five-thousand-dollar Swiss watches with my offshore expense card?"
"Ethan, please," Vanessa sobbed, crawling backward until her spine hit the mahogany credenza. "He pursued me! He cornered me at the charity gala! Dylan told me Grant was an angel trapped in a loveless marriage with an abusive woman!"
"Abusive?" I repeated aloud, stepping into the living room.
My voice cut clean through the hysterics like a scalpel through silk. All eyes turned toward me.
Grant looked up, his jaw bruised, a smear of ham grease on his cheek. "Nora... baby, thank God. Tell him. Tell him I’m a good man. Call 911! He broke Dylan’s jaw!"
Under the dining table, Dylan groaned, spitting a mouthful of blood onto Patricia’s prized Persian rug. "Call them, Nora... please..."
I tilted my phone, making sure to capture Grant’s terror, Dylan’s cowardice, and Vanessa’s ruined designer gown.
"Why would I call the police, Grant?" I asked softly. "Ethan hasn't broken anything that wasn't already rotten to the core."
Grant blinked, confusion replacing panic for a fraction of a second. "What?"
Ethan Cole looked at me, his icy blue eyes narrowing. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and smoothed it against his massive thigh. It was an anonymous printed itinerary—complete with flight confirmations to Cabo San Lucas, credit card statements, and the exact address of Patricia’s house for tonight's 'intimate celebration.'
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"You sent this," Ethan said quietly.
"I did," I answered, meeting his gaze without a tremor. "Along with the key code to Patricia’s garage. I told you if you wanted to catch them dividing up your joint investment portfolio, you’d find them here at ten-thirty."
