Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN BEFORE MEHer name was Laura Kendrick.
She was twenty-nine when she died.
Daniel was twenty-seven.
They had been engaged.
He never told me.
Not once.
In eleven years of marriage, Daniel never mentioned that the woman he planned to marry before me died unexpectedly less than two years before we met.
The private investigator’s report contained photographs, court records, old addresses, archived social-media posts, and interviews with people who had known them.
Laura worked as a veterinary technician outside Cincinnati.
She loved rescue dogs, country music, and old horror movies.
She had dark curly hair and a wide smile.
I stared at her photograph for a long time.
Then I noticed something that made me feel physically ill.
Around her neck was a small silver star necklace.
I owned the same necklace.
Daniel gave it to me on our first Christmas.
He said he saw it and thought of me.
I ripped mine off so quickly the chain scratched my skin.
Claire caught it before it hit the floor.
“Rachel.”
“He gave her the same thing.”
We sat inside a secure conference room at the district attorney’s office while Detective Ramirez examined the report.
Laura had developed unexplained symptoms during the final year of her relationship with Daniel.
Nausea.
Weakness.
Dizziness.
Irregular heartbeat.
Anxiety.
She visited doctors repeatedly.
One physician suggested panic attacks.
Another suspected an autoimmune disorder.
Then she collapsed at home.
Daniel called 911.
She died before reaching the hospital.
Official cause: sudden cardiac arrhythmia of undetermined origin.
No toxicology testing for cardiac glycosides had been performed.
Laura’s parents were still alive.
Investigators contacted them.
Her mother, Joan Kendrick, agreed to speak.
She arrived the next morning carrying a plastic storage box.
The moment she saw me, she began crying.
“I knew,” she said.
Not hello.
Not my name.
I knew.
I held her hands.
“Knew what?”
“That something was wrong with him.”
Joan sat across from us.
“Laura changed after she met Daniel. Not right away. Slowly. She stopped calling. She stopped visiting. She said I upset him.”
Same pattern.
“He told her she was unstable,” Joan continued. “Toward the end, she called me one night and said she thought he was putting something in her food.”
My entire body went cold.
“What happened?”
“She took it back the next day. Said she was being paranoid.”
Daniel.
I knew exactly how that happened.
He would have cried.
He would have looked wounded.
He would have told her how much it hurt that she could suspect him.
And she would end up apologizing.
Joan opened the storage box.
Inside were Laura’s journals.
Police took them carefully.
One entry, written two months before her death, read:
D says I’m imagining the bitter taste. Says medication changes taste even though I’m not taking medication. I feel crazy writing this.
Another:
His mother brought soup again. Sick afterward. Maybe stomach bug.
Patricia.
Even twelve years earlier.
The prosecutor reopened communication with the county medical examiner.
Laura had been buried, not cremated.
Exhumation required legal steps.
Her parents consented immediately.
“We buried our daughter believing her heart betrayed her,” her father said. “If someone did this, I want her to finally tell us.”
Daniel’s case changed overnight.
National reporters appeared.
Police agencies compared records.
His face spread across news websites.
A federal fugitive task force joined the search.
Still, he stayed hidden.
Then investigators discovered something in my father’s flash drive.
Audio recordings.
Dad had met Daniel privately six weeks before his death.
My father recorded the conversation.
We sat in silence as his voice filled the conference room.
Thomas Hale sounded exactly as I remembered.
Steady.
Dry.
Impossible to intimidate.
“You moved forty-three thousand dollars from Rachel’s account.”
Daniel’s voice answered.
“You’re confused.”
“No.”
“That account is jointly managed.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Pause.
Then Daniel changed tone.
“I think Rachel would be uncomfortable knowing you’re investigating her marriage.”
“I think Rachel will be more uncomfortable knowing her husband forged her electronic authorization.”
My eyes filled.
Dad knew.
He had been trying to protect me.
Daniel replied:
“You’ve always hated me.”
“I don’t hate you. I don’t trust you.”
“You’re going to destroy your daughter’s family over paperwork.”
“No. If her family is destroyed, it will be because of what you did.”
Silence.
Then Daniel said something soft.
“You’re getting older, Tom.”
Claire stopped breathing beside me.
Dad answered, “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“No.”
Daniel laughed.
“Just an observation.”
Six weeks later, Dad died.
Aneurysm.
Confirmed.
Or so we believed.
Detective Ramirez immediately requested Dad’s medical records and autopsy information.
The medical examiner had documented intracranial hemorrhage consistent with a ruptured aneurysm.
Nothing initially suggested poison.
Still, samples remained preserved.
They would retest.
My grief changed shape.
I had spent a year mourning Dad.
Now grief became suspicion.
Had Daniel killed him too?
The waiting was brutal.
Three days later, toxicology returned.
No cardiac glycosides.
No suspicious toxins.
Dad really had died from an aneurysm.
I cried from relief, then hated myself for feeling relieved that my father had “only” died naturally.
But his death created Daniel’s opportunity.
Dad had been the one person watching closely.
Once he was gone, Daniel began moving money.
And poisoning me.
Then another clue emerged.
My father’s investigator had located Laura’s case because Daniel once used Laura’s address on an old credit application.
But the investigator never proved wrongdoing.
Dad died before he could finish.
The report ended with a handwritten note:
Need talk to Rachel ASAP. Do not confront D again alone.
Too late.
He never got the chance.
Meanwhile, Laura’s exhumation proceeded.
The medical examiner warned that twelve years made testing difficult.
But certain plant-derived compounds and patterns might still offer evidence.
While we waited, Patricia requested another meeting.
This time, she wanted me there.
The prosecutor asked whether I was willing.
Claire said no before I could speak.
I said yes.
We met through reinforced glass at the county jail.
Patricia wore orange.
No pearls.
No styled hair.
No courtroom confidence.
She looked twenty years older.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “I didn’t know about Laura.”
I stared at her.
“You brought her soup.”
Her face collapsed.
“How do you know that?”
“So you remember.”
“I brought food because she was sick.”
“And you told Daniel he was using too much on me.”
Patricia looked away.
“I thought he was giving you something to calm you.”
I almost laughed.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“He said it was herbal.”
“You hid the bottles.”
“He told me you were trying to take Sophie away. He said you were unstable.”
“You watched him put something in my coffee.”
“I believed my son.”
“No. You chose your son.”
She began crying.
I felt nothing.
Then she whispered, “There’s something you don’t know.”
I almost stood.
I was tired of that sentence.
“What?”
“He kept trophies.”
I froze.
“What trophies?”
“Things from people.”
“Laura?”
She nodded.
“Other women?”
Patricia wouldn’t look at me.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
My mouth went dry.
“Where?”
“He had a storage unit. I helped him move things there after you two married.”
“Location?”
“Westerville.”
“Unit number?”
She closed her eyes.
“318.”
Police searched it that night.
Inside they found boxes.
Photographs.
Jewelry.
Old phones.
Documents.
And a row of labeled envelopes.
One read Laura.
Another read Rachel.
But there were three more women’s names.
Three women I had never heard of.
Daniel had not begun with me.
May you like
He hadn’t even begun with Laura.
And somewhere out there, he was still free.
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