Chapter 5 - Before the WeddingI met Marcus five years and eight months earlier at a fundraiser in Manhattan.
At least, that was the story I had always believed.
I had been working for a smaller compliance firm then, helping investigate misuse of nonprofit funds.
Marcus attended because the Fairchild family sponsored the event.
We spilled coffee on the same stack of brochures.
He made a joke.
I laughed.
Two weeks later, we had dinner.
Simple.
Accidental.
Normal.
Daniel Voss had just told me it wasn’t.
“Before we married?” Marcus repeated.
We sat in my car outside the café after Daniel left.
“Those were his words.”
“He’s trying to scare you.”
“Maybe.”
“You think there’s something else?”
“I think your mother has gone from tripping me at tea to interfering with my job because I refused to sign one document.”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
“That doesn’t explain before our marriage.”
“No.”
“What were you working on when we met?”
The question landed heavily.
I remembered.
“Bright Harbor.”
“What’s that?”
“A youth housing nonprofit.”
Marcus stared.
I continued slowly.
“My firm was hired after donors questioned why construction costs doubled on two shelters.”
“What happened?”
“We found inflated vendor invoices.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Can you find out?”
I looked at him.
“Old client work is confidential.”
“Even if it involved my family?”
“Especially then.”
His face tightened.
I understood why.
If Vivian’s network intersected with something I investigated before meeting Marcus, the implications were ugly.
But I wasn’t going to violate professional confidentiality because I was angry.
“I can search public enforcement records.”
We returned to Jenna’s apartment.
Within an hour, we found it.
Bright Harbor had settled a civil complaint four years ago.
No criminal charges.
No admission of wrongdoing.
Three contractors reimbursed the nonprofit.
One contractor was called Northstar Outreach Consulting.
Its registered manager?
Daniel Voss.
Marcus stared at the screen.
“My God.”
“It could be coincidence.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No.”
I opened archived nonprofit filings.
Northstar had received $1.8 million from Bright Harbor during the period my former firm investigated.
My old report would have been confidential.
But the settlement was public.
“What was your role?” Marcus asked.
“Junior analyst.”
“Would Voss have known your name?”
“Probably. I attended two interviews.”
Marcus stood.
He began pacing.
“So you investigated his company. Then you meet me.”
“Yes.”
“And Mom hates you immediately.”
“She hated my shoes immediately.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
There had been something strange about Vivian’s reaction the first time Marcus introduced us.
She didn’t behave like a mother meeting a girlfriend she considered socially unsuitable.
She behaved like someone recognizing a problem.
Her first question had been oddly specific.
Where exactly do you work?
At the time, I thought she was measuring my salary.
Now I wondered if she was confirming my identity.
Marcus called his father.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
“Dad normally picks up.”
“Could he be resting?”
“He’s in the city today.”
“Do you know that?”
Marcus stopped.
“No.”
He called the family driver.
Then the house manager.
Then his father’s private office.
Nobody could tell him where Charles was.
Or nobody would.
Finally, Marcus called the rehabilitation clinic his father visited twice a week.
His expression changed.
“What do you mean he canceled?”
Pause.
“When?”
Longer pause.
“No, thank you.”
He hung up.
“My father hasn’t attended physical therapy in three weeks.”
“That’s unusual?”
“He hasn’t missed a session since the stroke.”
A cold suspicion moved through me.
“When did Vivian start pushing the Harbor Ridge agreement?”
“About three weeks ago.”
Neither of us spoke.
Marcus called his father’s cardiologist.
They wouldn’t disclose information.
Understandable.
He called Vivian.
She answered immediately.
I could hear her voice from across the room.
“Marcus, darling.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s resting.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“I was there this morning.”
“He’s at the lake house.”
“You said yesterday he was in Manhattan.”
Vivian paused.
“Plans changed.”
“I want to speak with him.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mom.”
Her tone chilled.
“Do not speak to me like an employee.”
“Put Dad on the phone.”
“I said he is sleeping.”
“Then I’m driving to the lake house.”
“No.”
One word.
Too fast.
Marcus looked at me.
“Why not?”
Vivian recovered.
“Because your father needs peace, not another one of your emotional episodes.”
“My emotional episode?”
“Yes. Look what your wife has done to you in twenty-four hours.”
I almost admired it.
She could convert any attack into evidence that the victim was unstable.
Marcus gripped the phone.
“Did you forge my signature?”
Silence.
“Marcus.”
“Answer.”
“You clearly aren’t in a state where we can have a productive conversation.”
“Did you forge it?”
“Your father authorized those transactions.”
“Then let me ask him.”
“Enough.”
The call ended.
Marcus stared at his phone.
“I’m going to the lake house.”
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
The Fairchild lake property sat two hours north.
We made it in ninety minutes.
A caretaker named Lewis met us at the gate.
He looked uncomfortable when Marcus asked for his father.
“Mr. Fairchild isn’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not sure.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Exactly.
Marcus went still.
“Who told you he was staying here?”
“Mrs. Fairchild.”
Lewis hesitated.
“She called yesterday and asked me to tell anyone who inquired that Mr. Fairchild was resting.”
Marcus looked sick.
“Did she say why?”
“No, sir.”
Back in the car, I touched his arm.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
He looked less like a Fairchild than I had ever seen him.
Just a son who didn’t know where his father was.
“Marcus, we need to think.”
“My mother is hiding him.”
“We don’t know that.”
“She’s lying about where he is.”
“That we know.”
He called his sister, Allison.
She lived in Boston and kept as much distance from Vivian as geography allowed.
She answered on the second ring.
“What now?”
“Allison, have you talked to Dad?”
A pause.
“Not in a few weeks.”
“Why?”
“Mom said his speech got worse and he didn’t want calls.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“Did that sound like Dad?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because every conversation with this family turns into a hostage negotiation.”
Fair point.
“Allison, do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Can you come down?”
Another pause.
“What happened?”
Marcus looked at me.
“Mom attacked Claire.”
“She what?”
“Physically.”
“All right,” Allison said immediately. “I’m coming.”
We drove back toward Connecticut.
Halfway there, my phone received another message from the unknown number.
This time, it contained an image.
Charles Fairchild.
Sitting in a wheelchair beside a window.
A newspaper rested on his lap.
The date on the front page was yesterday.
Below it was one sentence.
HE IS SAFE FOR NOW.
Marcus saw it.
“Who sent that?”
“I don’t know.”
A second message arrived.
STOP ASKING ABOUT HARBOR RIDGE IF YOU WANT HIM TO STAY THAT WAY.
Marcus went white.
I called the number.
Disconnected.
Marcus grabbed his phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
I stopped him.
“Wait.”
He looked at me as if I were insane.
“Someone just threatened my father.”
“Yes. And we go to law enforcement. But first we preserve everything.”
I took screenshots.
Saved the original message.
Forwarded it to a secure archive.
Then I looked closely at the photograph.
Charles sat beside a window.
Behind him was a small portion of wallpaper.
Cream.
Green vines.
Tiny gold birds.
I had seen it before.
Not at the lake house.
Not at the Greenwich estate.
At Vivian’s charity gala two years earlier.
The Fairchild Women’s Legacy Foundation owned a private recovery residence in Westchester.
A place wealthy donors funded for women recovering from surgery.
It had the same wallpaper.
I pulled up an old gala brochure.
There it was.
Green vines.
Gold birds.
Marcus stared.
“That’s where he is.”
“Maybe.”
He started the engine.
I caught his wrist.
“We are not going there alone.”
This time, he listened.
We called an attorney.
Then law enforcement.
By sunset, two detectives met us outside the residence.
Vivian arrived eight minutes later.
She stepped from her car in sunglasses and a camel coat.
No panic.
No confusion.
Only fury.
She walked directly toward me.
“What have you done?”
Marcus stepped between us.
“Where is Dad?”
Vivian ignored him.
She pointed at me.
“This woman has poisoned you.”
A detective approached.
“Mrs. Fairchild, we need to speak with you.”
Vivian removed her sunglasses.
“You have no authority to enter private property.”
Then the front door opened.
A nurse stepped outside.
Behind her, in a wheelchair, sat Charles Fairchild.
Marcus ran toward him.
“Dad.”
Charles lifted one trembling hand.
His face looked thinner than I remembered.
But his eyes were alert.
He saw Vivian.
Then he saw me.
And with enormous effort, he forced out three words.
May you like
“Don’t... sign... anything.”
Vivian’s face finally cracked.
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