Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Red Dress
Marcus did not deny having my identification card.
That was the problem.
If he had laughed, protested or called Dominic desperate, I could have dismissed it.
Instead he closed the interview-room door and said, “We need to talk somewhere else.”
Dana heard everything.
So did the recording system.
Twenty minutes later, we sat in a secure conference room.
Marcus placed both hands on the table.
“I found your ID outside the cabin.”
“When?”
“The day after you were rescued.”
“Why were you there?”
“Dana asked me to assist because I knew your field habits.”
I looked at her.
She nodded.
“That part is true.”
“Then why was 11-47-3 scratched on it?”
Marcus breathed out slowly.
“Because I scratched it.”
My chair seemed suddenly too small.
“Why?”
“Because I found the number somewhere else and didn’t trust where the investigation would go.”
Dana stiffened.
“You withheld evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find the number?”
“In Dominic’s abandoned rental vehicle.”
Dana stood.
“You had no authority to search that vehicle.”
“I know.”
“What exactly did you find?”
“A paper caught beneath the driver’s seat. 11-47-3 and the initials R.M.”
Rachel Mercer.
I stared at him.
“Why put it on my ID?”
“Because I knew the card would enter evidence.”
“You planted a clue?”
“I preserved one.”
“You tampered with evidence.”
“Yes.”
His willingness to admit it made me angrier.
“You could have damaged the entire case.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
His face changed.
“Because Rachel Mercer was my sister’s best friend.”
I said nothing.
Neither did Dana.
Marcus continued.
“They grew up together in Spokane. I knew Rachel before she met Dominic.”
“You knew about her death?”
“Yes.”
“You knew Dominic was my husband.”
“Yes.”
That one landed hardest.
“You knew.”
“Elena—”
“You knew I married the widower of a woman you knew.”
“I didn’t know when you first married him.”
“But later?”
“Yes.”
“How much later?”
“About a year.”
I stood.
“You had four years to tell me.”
“I had suspicion, not evidence.”
“You had her death.”
“An accident investigation cleared him.”
“You knew enough to scratch a storage number onto my ID.”
“That was after Montana.”
I walked away from the table.
My entire life had become layers of people deciding what I deserved to know.
Dominic.
Vanessa.
Now Marcus.
“You trained me to trust information,” I said.
“I know.”
“You taught me that withholding intelligence can get people killed.”
“I know.”
“And you withheld this from me.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I was wrong.”
I turned.
Marcus Hale almost never apologized.
Not because he was arrogant.
Because he usually thought before acting.
“I thought I was protecting you from a suspicion I couldn’t prove.”
“You protected me into a marriage with him.”
“I know.”
Dana intervened.
“We can address Marcus later. Right now, the question is whether Dominic told the truth about Vanessa.”
I hated that she was right.
The evidence against Vanessa was growing.
Her relationship with Dominic began before Rachel died.
She received money afterward.
She knew about my insurance before my presumed death.
She helped create Cross Meridian Holdings.
And now Dominic accused her directly.
But accusing her did not make him innocent.
Predators sometimes tell the truth about other predators.
Vanessa agreed to another interview.
This time I attended.
Not behind glass.
Across from her.
Her attorney objected.
Vanessa allowed it.
She looked at me for a long time.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
She flinched.
“Don’t spend your apology yet. Answer questions.”
She nodded.
“Did you kill Rachel?”
“No.”
“Did you help Dominic kill her?”
“No.”
“Did you know he planned to hurt me in Montana?”
Her eyes filled.
“I knew he wanted the trip to go badly.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“He told me he was going to scare you.”
“How?”
“He said he would leave for several hours so you would think he abandoned you. Then he’d come back.”
I stared at her.
“You believed that?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me?”
She looked down.
There it was.
The question she had no version of innocence for.
“Because I wanted him.”
Four words.
Simple.
Ugly.
Honest.
“You wanted my husband.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted my money?”
She cried.
“I thought he would divorce you.”
“But if he didn’t?”
No answer.
“You stood beside my coffin.”
“I know.”
“You asked when the insurance would clear.”
“I know.”
“You thought I was dead.”
“I did.”
“And you still asked about money.”
She covered her mouth.
Her attorney whispered something.
She shook him off.
“I was horrible.”
“That is not the same thing as being a murderer.”
“No.”
“So which are you?”
She looked at me.
“I don’t know anymore.”
That answer chilled me.
Then she told us about a house.
Dominic owned it through another company.
A small property outside Bozeman.
He sometimes disappeared there.
Rachel had known about it.
Vanessa had been there twice.
I asked why it mattered.
“Because that’s where he kept things.”
“What things?”
“Records.”
“Of what?”
“People.”
Dana immediately organized a search warrant.
The property appeared almost empty.
One bedroom.
One desk.
Garage.
Basement.
Nothing obvious.
Then a forensic technician noticed the basement wall was six inches thicker than the floor plan indicated.
A false wall.
Behind it was a narrow room.
Shelves.
Boxes.
Hard drives.
Folders.
And photographs.
Hundreds.
Women.
Different ages.
Different cities.
Some married.
Some single.
Most professionally successful.
Insurance brokers.
Nurses.
Military officers.
Engineers.
Business owners.
Dominic had researched dozens of women.
Not all were victims.
Most probably never knew he existed.
He built profiles.
Assets.
Family connections.
Insurance eligibility.
Travel habits.
Risk factors.
Relationship vulnerabilities.
I found mine in Box 3.
The words hurt less the second time.
Maybe because disgust was replacing grief.
Then Dana found Rachel’s.
A red mark crossed her name.
COMPLETED.
Mine had a yellow mark.
ACTIVE.
Vanessa’s had blue.
RESERVE.
There were others.
“What was he doing?” I whispered.
Dana answered quietly.
“Building options.”
The room became a crime scene within minutes.
Agents carried out hard drives.
Financial ledgers.
Old phones.
One box contained jewelry belonging to Rachel.
Another contained copies of insurance claims.
Then Marcus found a small digital recorder.
It was labeled RACHEL.
Dana stopped him before he touched it.
Technicians processed it first.
That evening, we listened.
At first there was static.
Then Rachel’s voice.
“If you’re hearing this, something happened to me.”
I closed my eyes.
Rachel continued.
“Dominic thinks I don’t know about Vanessa.”
Vanessa began sobbing across the room.
“He thinks I don’t know about the insurance changes either.”
Dana looked at me.
The pattern.
Again.
Rachel had discovered it.
Rachel had known.
The recording continued.
“I’m going to confront him tomorrow at the cabin.”
My eyes opened.
The cabin.
Not our Montana cabin.
Another one.
Rachel gave the address.
It matched a property listed in the old investigation.
The place where she had last been seen alive.
Then she said:
“I copied everything. I hid it where Dominic will never think to look.”
The audio cut out.
We waited.
Static returned.
Then Rachel’s voice came back, faint.
“If Marcus Hale ever hears this, tell him I was right.”
Marcus looked shattered.
Rachel knew him.
Trusted him.
And somehow her warning had remained hidden for nine years.
Dana replayed the final seconds.
A sound could be heard behind Rachel.
A door.
Then a man’s voice.
Dominic.
“Who are you talking to?”
Rachel gasped.
The recording ended.
Vanessa stood suddenly.
“I know where she hid the copies.”
Everyone turned.
“How?” Dana asked.
Vanessa wiped her face.
“Rachel once told me something before she died. I thought she was trying to scare me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘If he ever comes for me, the truth is already behind him.’”
Dana frowned.
“Behind him where?”
Vanessa looked at the photograph of the old cabin.
Then at me.
“The fireplace.”
We drove through the night.
The old cabin had been vacant for years.
Dust covered everything.
The stone fireplace still stood.
A forensic team removed the wooden mantle.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside sat a waterproof metal box.
Dana opened it.
Files.
Photographs.
A flash drive.
And one sealed envelope.
On the front, Rachel had written:
FOR THE WOMAN WHO COMES AFTER ME.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was one sentence.
If you found this, Dominic chose you too.
Beneath the letter was a photograph.
I turned it over.
Vanessa gasped.
The woman in the picture was not Rachel.
It was not me.
She stood beside Dominic ten years earlier.
Dana read the name written beneath it.
“Claire Bowman.”
Marcus went pale.
“I know that name.”
We all turned.
He swallowed.
“She disappeared eleven years ago.”
Dana stared at the photograph.
Then her phone buzzed.
A database search had returned.
Claire Bowman had never been found.
But her life insurance had been paid.
May you like
The beneficiary was not Dominic.
It was Vanessa Reed.
