Chapter 8 - THE BRIDE WAS ARRESTED
Cassandra was arrested at her mother’s home.
By evening, every local news station had the footage.
Not the wedding assault.
Not yet.
Just Cassandra walking from a white stone mansion toward an unmarked police vehicle while shielding her face.
The charges were initially limited.
Assault.
Conspiracy related to unlawful access at the venue.
Evidence tampering.
The last charge surprised me.
Detective Benton explained why.
The corrupted security file had not failed accidentally.
Someone had attempted to delete the corridor footage eleven minutes after Ellen was shoved.
The deletion originated from the wedding planner’s administrative tablet.
And Cassandra had been caught on another camera holding that tablet.
Michael watched the news from our living room.
I had allowed him into the house after the police interviewed him.
Not because I had forgiven him.
Because Ellen asked me to.
He sat on the far end of the couch.
She sat opposite him.
The space between mother and son felt larger than the room.
Finally Ellen spoke.
“Why didn’t you help me?”
Michael lowered his head.
“I’m sorry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At everyone.”
Ellen stared at him.
“You looked directly at me.”
Michael began crying.
“You looked at me on that floor.”
“I know.”
“And you left.”
“I know.”
“I spent thirty-two years believing that if you ever saw me hurt, you would be the first person to help me.”
Michael covered his face.
“I know.”
Ellen’s voice trembled.
“No.”
“You don’t.”
“Because if you understood what you destroyed, you wouldn’t keep saying those two words.”
I had never been prouder of my wife.
She wasn’t shouting.
She wasn’t cruel.
She was finally refusing to carry his guilt for him.
Michael looked at me.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
“No.”
Ellen glanced at me but didn’t object.
“Dad.”
“You have money.”
“My accounts are frozen.”
“Your corporate accounts are frozen.”
“My personal account is almost empty.”
That surprised me.
“You earned plenty.”
“Cassandra handled most of our finances.”
Of course she did.
“Then stay at a hotel.”
“With what?”
I reached into my wallet.
For a moment, Michael looked hopeful.
I placed one hundred dollars on the table.
“That will get you a room somewhere.”
His expression changed.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You’re worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”
“And tonight you have one hundred.”
He stared at the bill.
Then at me.
“You really hate me.”
Ellen flinched.
I answered carefully.
“No.”
“That would be easier.”
“I love you.”
Michael’s eyes filled again.
“But I don’t trust you.”
I pushed the money toward him.
“And love without trust does not entitle you to my house.”
Michael stood.
He took the bill.
At the doorway, he stopped.
“Mom.”
Ellen looked up.
“I really am sorry.”
She nodded once.
“I hope someday you become sorry enough to change.”
Michael left.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Benton called.
The man dressed as a caterer had been identified.
His name was Aaron Pike.
Private investigator.
Former police officer.
And according to his attorney, he was prepared to cooperate.
But only if prosecutors gave him immunity.
Why?
Because Cassandra hadn’t hired him to steal a random letter.
She had hired him to steal DNA test results.
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And the name written across the top of those results was Michael Whitaker.
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