CHAPTER 1 — THE PERFECT MURDER
The wheelchair rolled another inch.
Glass groaned beneath its front wheels.
Forty-seven stories below, the marina shimmered beneath midnight lights. Luxury yachts rocked gently against their docks, unaware that a murder was about to happen above them.
Mason Caldwell smiled.
Not nervous.
Not angry.
Satisfied.
His expensive watch reflected the city lights as he wrapped one hand around the wheelchair and the other around my hair.
"One push," he whispered.
"Everyone calls it a tragic accident."
My shattered pelvis screamed with pain.
My unborn daughter kicked weakly inside me.
Thirty-eight weeks pregnant.
Unable to stand.
Unable to run.
Exactly how Mason wanted me.
Two weeks earlier, the SUV that crushed my car hadn't been an accident.
I knew because I heard the driver apologize before fleeing.
"I'm sorry... Mr. Caldwell paid us..."
The doctors thought the concussion had confused me.
Mason made sure they believed that.
He cried beside my hospital bed.
He bought flowers.
He hired private nurses.
He kissed my forehead while television cameras watched.
"My beautiful wife..."
"The mother of my daughter..."
"I'm praying for a miracle."
The entire city admired him.
Nobody knew that every night after the cameras disappeared, he leaned over my bed and whispered,
"You should have died."
I stopped fearing him that night.
Because I already knew something he didn't.
The insurance policy wasn't why he married me.
It was only the bonus.
The real money waited inside one white yacht floating beneath our balcony.
The Saint's Mercy.
Officially...
A luxury charter vessel.
Unofficially...
The largest fentanyl shipping hub on the West Coast.
And tonight...
The DEA was finally coming.
Mason shoved the wheelchair harder.
The front wheels slipped halfway beyond the balcony edge.
He laughed.
"You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"Tomorrow I'll be America's grieving husband."
He pulled a velvet box from his pocket.
Inside was another engagement ring.
"For Vanessa."
My replacement.
He had already planned the wedding.
Before my funeral.
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
His smile disappeared.
"Why are you laughing?"
I looked toward the marina.
Flashing blue lights suddenly reflected across the water.
Then came helicopters.
Then armored boats.
Then men in black tactical uniforms swarmed his yacht.
Mason slowly turned around.
"What..."
His voice cracked.
"No..."
DEA agents poured onto every deck.
Explosive charges blasted open hidden cargo rooms.
One agent lifted a brick wrapped in brown tape.
Another.
Then another.
Hundreds.
One officer held one brick high beneath the floodlights.
The white powder spilled across the deck.
Mason stopped breathing.
He whispered one word.
"Impossible."
I smiled.
"They found your golf bag."
His entire body froze.
The golf bag.
The one he never checked.
Because six weeks earlier...
While pretending to pack for a charity tournament...
I had hidden the evidence myself.
His phone rang.
Unknown Number.
He answered without thinking.
The voice on the other end calmly said,
"Mr. Caldwell..."
"This is Special Agent Daniel Brooks."
"We have your yacht."
"And we're coming for you next."
Mason's hand began shaking.
He finally looked at me.
Not like a victim.
Like a stranger.
Because for the first time...
May you like
He realized...
He had never truly known his own wife.
