Chapter 2 - THE TAPE THAT VANISHED
By midnight, the Callaway Tower was ringed by dozens of news vans. Headlines across the globe were already flashing the same dramatic line: BLOOD ON THE BRIDAL SUITE: BILLIONAIRE'S BRIDE ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER HOURS AFTER VOWS.
Inside the private medical wing of New York-Presbyterian Hospital, Nathaniel sat beside his mother’s bed. Eleanor was heavily sedated, her wrists badly bruised where Rose had hauled her over the glass.
The door opened, and Detective Miller walked in, tossing his hat onto a chair.
“We have a problem, Mr. Callaway,” Miller said flatly.
Nathaniel didn't look up from his mother's face. “Did the judge grant bail?”
“No. She’s being held without bail at Rose’s Way pending formal arraignment,” Miller said. “That’s not the problem.”
Nathaniel looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “Then what is?”
“The security footage from the terrace,” Miller said, crossing his arms. “We pulled the hard drives from your server room twenty minutes after the incident. The footage between 4:15 PM and 4:30 PM is gone.”
Nathaniel stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “That’s impossible. Callaway Tower uses a triple-redundant cloud server with real-time mirroring. Nothing can be deleted without my biometric key.”
“Well, someone wiped it,” Miller replied coldly. “Not just wiped it—overwrote the sectors with zero-byte data. Your chief of IT says the command came from inside the building, specifically from an authenticated terminal in the executive suite.”
“Victoria,” Nathaniel hissed, his fist clenching. “She had my passcode. She used my laptop before the ceremony to check her makeup angles.”
“Maybe,” Miller said neutrally. “Or maybe someone else wanted that video gone. We also interviewed the catering staff. Most of them were looking at the bar when the scream happened. The only person who had a clear line of sight was the girl who caught your mother.”
“Rose,” Nathaniel said.
“Yeah. Rose Danvers,” Miller said. “I tried to talk to her at the hospital after they stitched her hands up. But guess what? A private car picked her up forty minutes ago. Sent by your office.”
Nathaniel frowned. “I didn't send a car for her yet. I told my assistant to arrange a hotel for her tomorrow morning.”
Miller’s eyes sharpened. “Then you better find out who put that girl in a car, Mr. Callaway. Because if she saw what really happened up there, she’s the only witness left—and right now, she’s completely unprotected.”
Meanwhile, in the back of a blacked-out Lincoln Navigator speeding down the Long Island Expressway, Rose pressed her bandaged hands against her lap.
The driver was a tall man in an immaculate suit who hadn't spoken a single word since pulling her out of the hospital lobby.
“Excuse me,” Rose said nervously, looking out the tinted window at the passing streetlights. “Is Mr. Callaway at his house? He said I was going to a hotel in Midtown.”
The driver didn't answer. He simply flipped a switch on the dashboard. A heavy privacy partition slid up, locking Rose in the back.
Panic surged through her chest. She reached for the door handle—locked. She pulled her phone from her pocket, but the signal bar read NO SERVICE. A jammer was running inside the vehicle.
Rose reached into her pocket with her clumsy, bandaged fingers and felt the small, silver velvet box she had slipped from the rooftop terrace while the police were busy arresting Victoria.
She hadn't given it to Detective Miller. She hadn't given it to Nathaniel.
Why? Because when she looked at the silver box back on the terrace, she had recognized the monogram stamped on its bottom: E.C.
Eleanor Callaway.
The mother hadn't been taking photos when she went over the rail. She had been hiding a listening device.
Suddenly, the Lincoln pulled into a long, winding driveway flanked by high iron gates and dense pine trees. It wasn't the Callaway Estate in Greenwich. It was a secluded coastal mansion overlooking the dark waters of the Long Island Sound.
The car stopped. The rear door was jerked open.
Standing outside in the chilly night air was not Nathaniel Callaway.
It was Evelyn Vance—Victoria’s mother.
Evelyn was still wearing her mother-of-the-bride gown, though the lace was disheveled, and her eyes were cold, calculating, and completely dry of tears.
“Get out of the car, girl,” Evelyn commanded, her voice like grinding stones.
May you like
Rose stepped out slowly, keeping her hands tucked into her coat pockets. “Mrs. Vance? Why did your driver bring me here?”
“Because my daughter is sitting in a cold cell at Central Booking for a crime she didn't commit,” Evelyn said, stepping close enough that Rose could smell her expensive floral perfume. “And you are going to tell the police that you saw Eleanor Callaway jump.”
