Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Well
Two days later, the quiet of our victory was shattered by a phone call from the Dallas County Jail.
David Vance walked into the conservatory where I was feeding Sophie her morning fruit puree. His expression was dark, his phone tucked into his suit pocket.
“Eleanor,” David called out to my grandmother, who was tending to her orchid collection near the glass windows. “We have a situation with Linda.”
Grandma didn't turn around from her flowers. “Has she posted bond?”
“No,” David said. “Her public defender called my office ten minutes ago. Linda is refusing to cooperate with her court-appointed counsel unless she is allowed to speak directly to Andrea.”
I stopped the spoon halfway to Sophie’s mouth. “To me?”
“She claims she has information regarding Alex’s accident,” David dropped the bombshell with surgical precision.
The room went entirely motionless.
The sound of the rain hitting the glass conservatory roof seemed to multiply by ten.
I set the baby spoon down on the high chair tray, my fingers cold as ice.
“What about Alex’s accident?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Alex died in a collision on I-35. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. The police report said it was an mechanical failure combined with driver fatigue.”
David looked uncomfortable, pulling a fresh transcript from his pocket.
“According to Linda’s public defender,” David explained, choosing his words with extreme care, “Linda claims that the trucking company involved in the crash—Midwest Logistics Corp—was a subsidiary shell company managed by Gregory Mendoza, Mark’s brother.”
Grandma Eleanor turned around slowly, her pruning shears dropping onto the wooden bench with a sharp metallic clink.
“What are you saying, David?” Grandma demanded, her voice dripping with ice.
“Linda claims that two weeks before Alex died,” David said, reading from the note, “Alex came across a set of suspicious delivery receipts while working at his accounting firm. He realized that Midwest Logistics was overbilling Caldwell Manufacturing by millions of dollars. He told Linda he was going to bring the files to Eleanor.”
I stood up from my chair, my knees trembling so violently I had to lean against the high chair for support.
“No...” I choked out. “No, no, no... Alex died in a car crash. It was an accident. The police said the brakes failed on the truck!”
“Midwest Logistics owned that truck, Andrea,” David said softly, his eyes filled with profound sympathy. “And according to Linda, when Mark found out Alex had discovered the double-invoicing scheme, Mark called his brother Gregory.”
Grandma Eleanor’s face went dead white.
“Get the cars,” Grandma ordered Marcus, who was standing by the door.
“Mrs. Caldwell?” David asked.
“We are going to the Lew Sterrett Justice Center right now,” Grandma declared, her voice cold enough to freeze blood. “And if my daughter lies to us about Alex’s death to save her own skin, I will personally ensure she spends the rest of her natural life in a maximum-security facility.”
Ten minutes later, we were in the back of Grandma’s armored Lincoln, speeding through the rain toward downtown Dallas.
I stared out the tinted window at the passing gray highway, my mind spinning back two years into the past.
I remembered the night Alex died.
He had stayed late at his office on a Thursday night. He had called me at eight o'clock, his voice strangely tense, telling me he had found something strange in an old audit folder and that he was coming straight home.
He never made it home.
At 9:15 PM, an unladen semi-truck crossed the median line on Interstate 35 near Lewisville, slamming broadside into Alex’s sedan.
The driver, a man named Carl Vance (a distant cousin of my mother’s late husband), claimed his air brakes had failed coming down the wet incline. The insurance company settled out of court for a minor sum that was instantly absorbed by Alex’s medical bills.
I had believed it was just bad luck.
Cruel, senseless, tragic bad luck that had torn my life apart and left me alone in the world with a newborn baby.
Now, sitting in the back of my grandmother’s car, the terrifying truth began to rear its head:
May you like
Alex hadn't died in an accident.
He had been murdered to protect a million-dollar corporate scam.
