Chapter 11 - The Delivery at Midnight
The private penthouse suite at the St. Regis was completely quiet when we arrived at two o’clock in the morning. Rose petals were scattered across the king-sized bed; a chilled bottle of Krug champagne sat waiting in a silver bucket beside a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.
I kicked off my designer heels with a groan of pure ecstasy, collapsing onto the velvet sofa while Caleb loosened his bow tie and discarded his tuxedo jacket.
"We did it," I said, looking up at the high ceilings. "We actually survived."
"We didn't just survive," Caleb said, pouring two glasses of champagne and walking over to sit beside me. "We won."
He clinked his glass against mine. The crystal chime rang pure in the quiet room.
Before we could take a sip, the front doorbell of the penthouse chimed.
Caleb frowned, glancing at his watch. "It’s two-fifteen. Room service?"
"We didn't order anything," I said, setting my glass down on the marble coffee table.
Caleb stood up, smoothing his dress shirt, and walked over to the door. He checked the peephole, then unlocked the heavy oak door.
Standing in the hallway was the hotel’s night manager, looking distinctly uneasy. Behind him stood two uniformed police officers.
My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless pit.
"Mr. Montgomery?" the night manager asked quietly. "I apologize for the late disturbance, but these officers insisted on speaking with you and Mrs. Montgomery immediately."
Caleb stepped forward, his posture instantly defensive. "What is this about? If this is about Eleanor Whitaker, our legal counsel has already handled—"
"It’s not about Mrs. Whitaker, sir," the older police officer interrupted, stepping into the entryway. He removed his peaked cap, his expression grave and unreadable. "It’s regarding your sister-in-law, Mallory Whitaker."
I stood up from the sofa, my heart racing. "Did she violate the restraining order? Is she outside the hotel?"
"No, ma'am," the officer replied, his voice heavy with grim finality. "Forty minutes ago, Miss Whitaker's vehicle was found abandoned on the edge of the suspension bridge over the Hudson River. The driver's door was open, the engine was running, and her cell phone was left on the front seat."
The room seemed to spin around me. "What?"
"We’re conducting a search and rescue operation right now," the officer continued. "However, before she disappeared, a scheduled delivery was dispatched from her apartment to this address. The courier dropped it off at the front desk five minutes ago."
The younger officer stepped forward, holding a sleek black metallic lockbox tied with a single white silk ribbon—the exact same ribbon that had been used on my ruined wedding invitations.
Taped to the top of the box was an envelope with my name written in Mallory’s jagged, unmistakable handwriting.
Caleb took the box with trembling hands, setting it on the entryway table. The officers watched us closely.
"Did she... did she jump?" I choked out, a wave of horrific nausea crashing over me.
"We haven't found a body, Mrs. Montgomery," the older officer said carefully. "The river currents are strong, but there’s no suicide note in the car. Just this delivery."
Caleb pulled the envelope off the box and opened it. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock.
His eyes scanned the words, and his face instantly turned an unnatural, terrifying shade of white. The calm, untouchable composure he had maintained all day shattered into raw, unadulterated shock.
"Caleb?" I whispered, grabbing his arm. "What does it say?"
Caleb looked at me, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He slowly turned the card toward me.
Written in bold black ink was a single paragraph:
*You thought this was about Caleb? Oh, Lauren, you truly are the blindest fool in the world. Caleb was just the distraction to keep you busy while we emptied the real accounts. Look inside the box, dear sister. Look at who really signed the adoption papers twenty-six years ago. You aren’t a Whitaker. And Caleb’s father has known it since the day you were born.*
My hands shook violently as I reached toward the silver latch of the lockbox.
Caleb reached out to stop me—"Lauren, wait"—but my fingers were already flipping the cold metal catch open.
May you like
The lid popped open with a heavy click.
Inside rested an unsealed manila envelope stamped with the official seal of the Montgomery Family Trust, dated twenty-six years ago, and a sleek flash drive with a label that read: *PLAY ME BEFORE YOU BOARD THE PLANE.*
