Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN IN THE BLUE DRESSThe unknown voice belonged to a woman.
Detective Brooks confirmed that two days later.
But identifying her took longer than anyone expected.
The guests at Richard's dinner party had included two senior Sterling Capital executives, their wives, a real estate developer, and a woman introduced as Victoria's personal friend.
Her name was Catherine Bell.
Forty-eight years old.
Former corporate attorney.
Recently divorced.
And, according to public records, the owner of a consulting company that had received unusually large payments from Richard's department.
When Rebecca showed me her photograph, I recognized her immediately.
Catherine had worn a pale blue dress that night.
She'd been sitting near the dining-room doors when I arrived.
I remembered her looking uncomfortable as Richard criticized my hospital scrubs.
Unlike the others, she hadn't laughed.
"She's the voice?" I asked.
"Investigators believe so," Rebecca replied. "They'll need to confirm it."
"What did she mean, 'This wasn't supposed to happen tonight'?"
Rebecca didn't answer immediately.
"That's one of the questions they want to ask her."
"Have they found her?"
"Not yet."
I stared at Catherine's photograph.
"Is she hiding?"
"We don't know."
Three days had passed since Grace's birth.
Richard still hadn't seen his daughter.
A temporary protective order restricted his contact with me, and the hospital had established additional safeguards while his legal status was being addressed.
The criminal investigation was moving forward.
Detective Brooks had told me that investigators were examining evidence concerning the assault, obstruction of emergency assistance, and possible financial crimes.
But Richard's lawyers were fighting aggressively.
His family had issued a second public statement.
This one claimed that "politically connected individuals" were abusing their influence to persecute an innocent husband.
The statement never mentioned my injuries.
Or Grace's premature birth.
Or the smashed phone.
Instead, it accused my father of using military connections to intimidate Richard's family.
I read it once.
Then deleted the screenshot.
"He's still trying to make himself the victim," I told Dad.
Dad sat beside my bed, peeling an orange.
"That doesn't change what happened."
"But people believe him."
"Some will."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
He separated another orange segment.
"Emily, public opinion isn't a jury."
I looked down.
"What if he wins?"
Dad set the orange aside.
"Then we keep pursuing every lawful option available. But we're not going to surrender because he can afford a public relations firm."
I sighed.
"Sometimes I wish I could be as calm as you."
Dad smiled faintly.
"I've had sixty-eight years to practice."
He handed me the orange.
"Eat something."
I took a bite.
For a moment, I felt ten years old again.
Sitting on the farmhouse porch while Dad explained why thunderstorms sounded louder over open fields.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the number.
His expression changed.
"Excuse me, sweetheart."
He stepped outside.
Through the glass panel, I watched him speak.
His shoulders straightened.
The easy smile disappeared.
He looked like a man receiving battlefield intelligence.
Five minutes later, he returned with Rebecca.
"We found Catherine Bell," he said.
"Where?"
"At a hotel in Philadelphia."
My heart raced.
"Did she run away?"
Rebecca shook her head.
"She contacted an attorney and indicated she wanted to speak with investigators."
"Why?"
"She says Richard threatened her."
I stared at her.
"Threatened her with what?"
"Financial ruin. Criminal exposure. And harm to her professional reputation."
I sat back.
"What was she involved in?"
Rebecca opened a folder.
"Catherine's consulting company was allegedly used to route money from several questionable investment transactions. Investigators are examining whether Richard authorized improper payments."
I swallowed.
"Was she helping him steal from my trust?"
"She may have helped him attempt to access assets linked to the trust."
Dad looked at me.
"Nothing has been taken from the trust as far as the trustees can establish."
I nodded slowly.
Then another thought struck me.
"Why was she at dinner?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"According to her attorney, Richard invited her to discuss an upcoming financial transaction."
"What transaction?"
"An agreement involving your alleged mental incapacity."
My stomach turned.
"What?"
Rebecca placed a copy of a draft document on my table.
It contained language describing me as unable to manage my finances because of "serious emotional and psychological impairment."
I stared at it.
My name was typed across the top.
Below it were references to my pregnancy.
My hospital employment.
And supposed episodes of unstable behavior.
"Who wrote this?"
"Investigators are still establishing that."
I flipped to the last page.
There was a space for a physician's signature.
And another for a witness.
The physician's name was already typed.
Dr. Andrew Keller.
I recognized it.
He wasn't my doctor.
He was a physician who'd treated Richard for years.
And he'd attended our wedding.
"He's not my doctor," I whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
"That's one of several serious problems with the document."
I kept reading.
The draft proposed appointing Richard as my financial representative under circumstances that the document claimed would justify removing my independent control.
There were also references to transferring assets into a jointly administered investment structure.
My throat tightened.
"This is why they wanted me to sign those papers."
"Possibly."
I looked at Dad.
"He was trying to make me look crazy."
Dad's jaw tightened.
Rebecca leaned closer.
"Emily, a document like this doesn't automatically make someone legally incapacitated. These are allegations and proposals, not accomplished legal results."
"But he was preparing to use them."
"That is what the evidence suggests."
I looked back at the photograph of Catherine.
"And she knew?"
"According to her attorney, she knew about some of the financial plans. She claims she didn't know Richard intended to use fabricated medical allegations until later."
I felt sick.
"Do you believe her?"
"I don't know yet."
Neither did I.
Then Rebecca told me why Catherine had disappeared after the dinner party.
She had been standing in the dining-room doorway when Victoria shoved me.
She'd seen me strike the counter.
She'd heard me scream.
And she'd watched Richard break my phone.
Afterward, according to her attorney, Richard told her that if she spoke to police, he'd make sure she went down with him for financial crimes.
So she'd panicked.
Driven to Philadelphia.
And hidden in a hotel until her conscience overcame her fear.
"She wants to testify?" I asked.
"She says she does."
I closed my eyes.
A witness.
Not just a recording.
A person who'd seen what happened.
I wanted to feel relieved.
But all I could think was:
Why hadn't she helped me?
Why had she stood there while I was bleeding?
Then I remembered my own years of silence.
All the times I'd hidden bruises.
All the times I'd told Maria I was clumsy.
All the times I'd convinced myself that speaking up would make everything worse.
Fear makes people do terrible things.
Sometimes it makes them hurt others.
Sometimes it makes them stand still while someone else gets hurt.
I didn't know whether Catherine deserved forgiveness.
But I hoped she would finally tell the truth.
That evening, I visited Grace again.
She was still on respiratory support, but her oxygen needs had decreased slightly.
The doctor explained that her progress would not be linear.
There might be setbacks.
There might be frightening nights.
But today was better than yesterday.
And for now, that was enough.
I sat beside her incubator.
"Hello, beautiful girl."
Her eyes remained closed.
"I have something to tell you."
I leaned closer.
"Your mommy used to think that being strong meant never crying."
I brushed a finger over her tiny hand.
"But I've cried more this week than I have in my whole life."
Grace moved slightly.
"And you know what?"
I smiled through tears.
"I think maybe being strong means telling the truth, even when you're terrified."
Behind me, Maria approached.
"Emily?"
I turned.
She looked shaken.
"What's wrong?"
She held her phone.
"Someone just sent me a video."
My heart raced.
"What video?"
She glanced toward Grace.
"From Richard's house."
I stood carefully.
"Show me."
The footage was grainy.
Apparently recorded from a phone held behind a half-open doorway.
It showed Victoria standing over me.
Richard nearby.
The granite countertop.
My blood on the floor.
And then—
Victoria grabbed a serving dish.
She lifted it over my body.
I heard her voice.
"If she won't get up, maybe this will teach her."
The video ended.
I stared at the screen.
Maria was trembling.
"Who sent it?" I whispered.
"An anonymous number."
"Did you give it to the police?"
"Not yet. I came straight to you."
I looked at her.
"Call Detective Brooks."
Maria nodded.
But before she moved, another message appeared.
May you like
This one contained only six words.
Ask who ordered dinner that night.
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