Chapter 4 - THE RED CAR AND THE COLD TRAILThe police arrived twenty minutes later, turning the white-and-gold wedding venue into a crime scene illuminated by flashing blue and red lights.
Statements were taken. The guests were sent home in shocked silence. My wedding dress, stained with dust from the study floor, felt like a tragic costume I couldn't wait to strip off.
Detective Miller, a veteran investigator with grey hair and sharp, tired eyes, sat across from me in the estate's parlor. Nolan’s metal box sat between us on the coffee table.
Using the small silver key Harper had saved, Detective Miller unlocked the box.
Inside were jump drives, bank receipts showing offshore wire transfers from Vane Logistics into an account registered under Wyatt’s mother's maiden name, and photos of the hotel construction site showing severe foundation cracking.
"Mrs. Vance," Detective Miller said, referring to me by my maiden name, his voice heavy with empathy. "This evidence is extensive. It clearly shows a financial motive for foul play regarding your husband’s death. But we have a major problem."
"What problem?" I asked, sitting beside my brother, who had an ice pack pressed against his ribs.
"Wyatt's car was found abandoned two miles down the highway," Miller said. "He had a secondary vehicle—a red Ford F-150 registered under a shell business—waiting in a storage yard near the river. He's skipped town."
"Then find him!" Leo demanded.
"We are tracking his cards, his phone, and putting out an APB across three states," Miller replied. "But Wyatt was smart. He spent two years consolidating Nolan's estate, settling debts, and managing your finances. He knows your daily routines, your accounts, and your family's locations."
A cold shudder ran down my spine.
Miller leaned forward. "Which means until we catch him, you and your daughter are not safe in Savannah. Wyatt is desperate now. A desperate man with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous kind."
Two hours later, under police escort, I packed three suitcases at our house. Harper sat on her bed, holding her favorite stuffed bear, watching me with wide, quiet eyes.
"Are we coming back, Mommy?" she asked.
"Not for a while, sweetie," I said, kissing her forehead. "We're going to visit Uncle David in Chicago."
As I zipped my bag shut, my eyes landed on the side table where a framed picture of Wyatt, Nolan, and me at a college football game had sat for years.
May you like
I picked up the frame, pulled the picture out, and tore Wyatt’s face out of the photograph, dropping his half into the trash can.
I took my daughter's hand and walked out into the dark night.
