Chapter 3 - The Secret Fiancé
As the reality of David’s letter washed over the crowd, the initial shock among the mourners transformed into palpable, simmering outrage. People began pulling out their smartphones, pointing their cameras directly at Brenda as she retreated toward the paved access road of the cemetery. I didn't chase her; my primary duty was to wrap my arms around Noah and Toby, shielding them from the ugly disintegration of the woman who had brought them into the world.
“Let’s go to the car, boys,” I whispered softly, kissing the tops of their heads. “You are coming home with Grandma today. You are never going to spend a single second in a foster home. I promise you on my life.”
As we walked toward my sedan, flanked by Marcus and several loyal friends, I noticed where Brenda was fleeing. She wasn't walking toward the black limousine that had brought her to the service. She was practically sprinting toward a sleek, silver Range Rover parked at the far edge of the cemetery perimeter beneath a grove of weeping willows.
The driver’s door of the SUV swung open, and a tall, impeccably dressed man stepped out onto the gravel to meet her. My blood turned to liquid nitrogen.
It was Gregory Thorne.
Greg was not a stranger to our family; he was the senior wealth management advisor at the boutique financial firm where David had kept his primary investment portfolios and corporate trust accounts. For three years, Greg had sat at my son’s dining table, drinking his wine, reviewing his tax portfolios, and pretending to be a trusted fiduciary friend while David battled for his life. Now, seeing Brenda throw her arms around Greg’s neck in panic, the entire, sickening architecture of their conspiracy came into sharp focus.
I handed my car keys to Marcus. “Put the boys in the backseat and lock the doors. I’ll be right back.”
I marched across the damp gravel, my heels clicking with rhythmic, lethal determination until I stood barely five feet from the silver SUV. Brenda was weeping hysterically against Greg’s cashmere lapel, pointing her trembling finger back toward me.
“She has a flash drive, Greg!” Brenda sobbed. “David knew! The bastard knew everything! He set up some kind of automated program to send our bank records to the feds!”
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Greg’s polished, professional demeanor cracked. He glared at me over Brenda’s shoulder, his jaw tightening as he reached for the door handle to shove her inside. “Martha, listen to me. This is grief talking. David was paranoid at the end. The chemotherapy medications induced severe cognitive delusions. Whatever files you think you have will be thrown out of court by any competent judge.”
“He didn't need a judge today, Gregory,” I replied, my voice calm, level, and radiating absolute hostility. “He used his own mind to trap you both. You abused your fiduciary oath to siphon money from a dying man, and you seduced his wife while he was throwing up in the next room. You think you’re driving away to a clean slate? My son just locked the doors of your federal prison cells from six feet under.”
