Chapter 3 - THE SCHEDULE THAT DESTROYED MY MARRIAGE
Vincent found me the next afternoon.
Not because I told him where I was.
Because Detective Harris did.
I almost had security throw him out.
Then I saw him.
Vincent Moretti had always looked impossible to shake.
At thirty-eight, he could walk into a room of hostile businessmen and make them reconsider their entire strategy with one look.
That man was gone.
His hair was disordered.
His shirt was wrinkled.
He hadn’t shaved.
And in his hand was my wedding ring.
He stopped six feet from me.
“Claire.”
I hated that my heart still reacted to his voice.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
That surprised me.
The old Vincent would have said he had a right.
He had always believed being my husband entitled him to access.
Apparently one terrible day had taught him something seven years of marriage hadn’t.
“I’ll leave if you ask.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To tell you something before the police do.”
I waited.
He placed a folder on the table.
Vanessa had kept records.
Not company records.
Mine.
Every call I made to Vincent.
Every request for dinner.
Every time I asked whether he could come home early.
Every doctor appointment.
Every anniversary plan.
Beside each request, she had written a response.
DENIED.
RESCHEDULED.
NOT URGENT.
PERSONAL MATTER.
DO NOT INTERRUPT.
I stared.
“She kept files on me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I flipped through months of humiliation.
Then years.
Three years.
Four.
Five.
My hands started shaking.
“You knew she was controlling my access.”
Vincent did not defend himself.
“Yes.”
“You allowed it.”
“Yes.”
“You let another woman decide when your wife could speak to you.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Then don’t stand there expecting me to blame Vanessa for our marriage.”
“I’m not.”
That stopped me.
Vincent’s voice was rough.
“She exploited the system.”
He swallowed.
“But I built it.”
For the first time since leaving, anger broke through the numbness.
“Fifteen minutes, Vincent.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
My voice cracked.
“I spent seven years learning how to fit inside whatever space remained after your business was finished with you.”
He looked away.
“I thought providing for you meant—”
“You provided everything except yourself.”
Silence.
I pressed one hand against my abdomen.
His eyes followed the movement.
Pain crossed his face.
I hated that too.
“You lost a baby,” I said. “I lost a baby while calling a husband who wasn’t available.”
His eyes closed.
I expected excuses.
There were none.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t bring the baby back.”
“I know.”
“Sorry won’t make me trust you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you Matteo tried to kill me.”
My anger vanished.
“What?”
Vincent pushed another photograph toward me.
Security footage from his private garage.
A man in a mechanic’s uniform stood beside the sedan.
His face was partially hidden.
But a tattoo showed on his wrist.
Moretti security had identified him.
A former employee of Matteo’s shipping company.
Vincent continued:
“Vanessa changed my car assignment at 8:14 that morning.”
“You were supposed to use the sedan.”
“Yes.”
“Then why change it?”
“According to her calendar notes, Matteo requested a last-minute meeting across town.”
My stomach tightened.
“He moved you away from the car.”
“Yes.”
“Then who was supposed to die?”
Vincent looked at me.
“That’s what doesn’t make sense.”
The hotel phone rang.
I answered.
Front desk.
“Ms. Bennett, a package arrived for you.”
“I’m not expecting anything.”
“No return address.”
Harris inspected it before allowing me to open it.
Inside was a photograph of the crashed sedan.
Across the windshield, someone had written in red ink:
VINCENT WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
May you like
Beneath it:
YOU WERE.
