Chapter 5 - The Confession
Detective Miller placed an audio recorder on the desk and pressed play.
The speaker crackled, and then Linda’s voice filled the room. Stripped of the condescending, aristocratic drawl she had affected for three years, her real voice was raspy, crude, and dripping with venomous desperation.
*"It wasn't my idea!"* Linda’s voice wailed through the static. *"It was Ronnie! He found her on that genealogical heritage registry three years ago! He saw the Montgomery trust filings in the public probate court records! He spent six months studying her habits before he 'accidentally' spilled his coffee on her outside the art gallery!"*
I closed my eyes. The memory hit me with sickening clarity: the rainy Tuesday afternoon outside the museum, the handsome, charming stranger in the tweed coat who apologized profusely, bought me a pastry, and listened with rapt attention as I talked about my passion for historic architecture. It had all been an audition. A rehearsed performance.
*"What was the endgame for Claire Montgomery?"* an interrogator’s voice demanded on the recording.
*"The baby changed everything!"* Linda shrieked. *"Ronnie didn't want a kid! But when she got pregnant, he realized a child gave him total leverage over the trust. If Claire died of medical complications during or right after childbirth, the trust would be forced to pay out monthly custodial stipends to Ronnie as the legal guardian of the heir! Millions every year, unmonitored!"*
*"And the incident with the water yesterday evening?"* the interrogator asked.
A heavy pause hung on the tape before Linda replied, her voice dropping into a petulant whine. *"She wasn't breaking fast enough. She was supposed to have a postpartum collapse. The doctor told Ronnie she was anemic and had low blood pressure. Ronnie said if we pushed her into severe hypothermia, she’d pass out. Then we could leave her on the back porch, lock the slider, and tell the paramedics she had suffered a sleepwalking episode induced by postpartum psychosis. He was going to stage it that night! I poured the water to start the shock!"*
Marcus reached over and violently slapped the stop button on the recorder, his hand shaking with rage.
"Monsters," Marcus whispered, his face crimson. "Absolute, unmitigated monsters."
I didn't cry. The tears had completely dried up hours ago. In their place was an icy, impenetrable fortress of resolve.
"Detective Miller," I said calmly, looking the officer straight in the eye. "What is Ronald's current status?"
"He has invoked his right to remain silent," Miller answered. "He’s being held without bail in the county detention center. His arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine. The prosecutor is charging him with attempted premeditated murder, aggravated domestic battery, conspiracy to commit murder, and seven counts of federal financial fraud."
"I want to see him," I said.
Marcus instantly shook his head. "Claire, no. That is completely unnecessary and dangerous for your physical health."
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"No, Marcus," I replied, standing up from the desk. My stitches ached, a sharp, burning reminder of the surgery that had brought my daughter into the world. But I stood upright, shoulders back, chin high. "He looked at me while I was shivering, while my baby was screaming, and he smirked. He needs to see who is standing on the other side of that glass."
***
