Chapter 2 - The Person Beside Desmond

I stared at the photograph for almost one minute.

Desmond stood outside Mercy Memorial.

Same dark coat.

Same silver tie clip.

Same expression he wore whenever he was about to tell me something difficult.

But he wasn’t alone.

Monica was beside him.

Five months earlier.

The day Jolene supposedly died.

My fiancée.

Three weeks away from becoming my wife.

I zoomed in.

Her face was younger by only a few months.

Same eyes.

Same posture.

No mistake.

I called Trent.

He answered on the first ring.

“Tell me this is wrong.”

“It isn’t.”

“Where did the photo come from?”

“Traffic camera archive.”

“Why were they together?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Find out.”

A pause.

Then Trent said:

“There’s more.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“What?”

“Monica’s phone was in the same area for 2 hours.”

“Mercy Memorial?”

“Yes.”

“And Jolene?”

“No phone.”

“Desmond?”

“His device went dark 20 minutes before the photo.”

I stood.

“Keep digging.”

“I am.”

I ended the call.

Then I called Desmond.

He answered calmly.

“Grant.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Stay there.”

Silence.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

I hung up.

I drove faster than I should have.

Desmond lived in the old Holloway house.

The same place he had raised me after my parents died.

He was waiting in the library.

Glass of whiskey.

No surprise on his face.

That made me angrier.

I placed the photograph on the table.

He looked at it.

Then at me.

“So you found it.”

Not denial.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

I stared.

“You knew I would.”

“Eventually.”

“Why was Monica with you?”

Desmond leaned back.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Grant.”

“No.”

My voice stayed level.

“Why was Monica with you the day you told me Jolene was dead?”

Desmond looked tired.

“She came to me.”

“For what?”

“To ask me to keep you away from Jolene.”

Silence.

I laughed once.

“Try again.”

“That is the truth.”

“Why?”

“Because Jolene was pregnant.”

My entire body went still.

He continued:

“Monica knew.”

“When?”

“Before you did.”

“I never knew.”

“I know.”

I stared at him.

“How did Monica know?”

Desmond looked at the floor.

“She saw the medical file.”

“What medical file?”

“Jolene had gone to a private clinic.”

“For the pregnancy.”

“Yes.”

“And Monica had access.”

“Through her family.”

I felt cold.

The Langfords owned 3 private medical centers in Georgia.

I had never thought about it.

Not once.

I looked at Desmond.

“So Monica discovered Jolene was carrying my child.”

“Yes.”

“And came to you.”

“Yes.”

“What did she ask?”

Desmond hesitated.

I saw it.

“Say it.”

“She asked me to remove Jolene from Savannah.”

Silence.

“Remove.”

“Yes.”

“Alive?”

Desmond looked up.

“Yes.”

I stepped closer.

“And you agreed.”

“I agreed to move her.”

“Why?”

“Because there was already a threat against her.”

I stopped.

“What threat?”

Desmond put down the glass.

“Your cousin Vincent.”

I frowned.

Vincent Holloway.

My father’s sister’s son.

Head of our Atlanta operations.

“Why would Vincent care about Jolene?”

“Because of the child.”

My jaw tightened.

“Explain.”

Desmond looked at me.

“If Jolene gave birth to your child before you married Monica, the succession agreement with the Langford family could collapse.”

I stared.

“What succession agreement?”

His face changed.

Small.

But enough.

I understood.

“There was a deal.”

Desmond did not answer.

I laughed quietly.

“Of course there was.”

“Grant—”

“What deal?”

He sighed.

“The Holloway and Langford families were combining interests.”

“Through my marriage.”

“Yes.”

“And my child with Jolene threatened it.”

“Yes.”

I looked away.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

“Did Monica know?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Everything about the agreement.”

I closed my eyes.

Three months beside me.

Wedding planning.

Dinner.

Smiles.

All built on paperwork I had never seen.

I looked at him.

“And Jolene?”

“She knew nothing at first.”

“At first.”

Desmond nodded.

“She learned after Monica confronted her.”

Silence.

“Monica confronted her.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Five months ago.”

“The day before you gave me the death certificate.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“What happened?”

Desmond looked toward the fireplace.

“Jolene refused to leave.”

“That sounds like her.”

“She said the child was yours.”

“It is.”

“She said you deserved to know.”

“I did.”

Desmond nodded.

“Yes.”

That answer made me stop.

He continued:

“I agreed with her.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Then why did I bury her?”

“Because Vincent moved before I did.”

Silence.

“What did he do?”

“He sent 2 men to take her.”

My hands closed.

“Did they hurt her?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I got there first.”

I stared.

“You took her.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Out of Savannah.”

“Where?”

Desmond shook his head.

“I won’t tell you.”

I almost moved toward him.

Then stopped.

“Why?”

“Because she asked me not to.”

I stared.

“Jolene asked you to lie to me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Desmond looked at me.

“Because by then she knew what Vincent would do if he found the child.”

“What would he do?”

“He would use it.”

“For leverage.”

“Yes.”

I laughed once.

“My child.”

“Yes.”

I looked at the photograph again.

“Then why fake her death?”

“To make Vincent stop looking.”

“And me.”

Desmond did not answer.

“To make me stop looking.”

“Yes.”

My voice dropped.

“You chose for me.”

“Yes.”

“You let me mourn her.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me.”

“Yes.”

I wanted to break something.

Instead, I asked:

“Why is she back now?”

Desmond’s face changed.

“I don’t know.”

That was the first answer that frightened me.

Then his phone rang.

He looked at the screen.

Vincent.

I held out my hand.

Desmond gave me the phone.

I answered.

“Grant.”

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Vincent laughed softly.

“So the dead girl finally came home.”