Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE
I stared at the forged signature until my own name stopped looking familiar.
Ashlynn Mercer Hartman.
The handwriting was almost perfect.
Almost.
Whoever had copied it knew how I crossed the second N.
They knew the little upward curve at the end of my last name.
They had seen my signature many times.
Gregory certainly had.
But he was not the only one.
Our wedding planner had paperwork.
Our mortgage broker had paperwork.
Gregory’s family attorney had prepared our prenuptial agreement.
My stomach turned.
“Who handled your prenup?” Ortiz asked.
“Simon Pike.”
“Hartman family attorney?”
“Yes.”
Ortiz photographed every page.
Then she sealed the originals inside an evidence envelope.
“This changes things.”
“How?”
“Because a domestic assault can be explained away by people with enough money and enough lawyers.”
Her eyes dropped toward the forged transfer document.
“This looks like planning.”
A knock came at the door.
One of Ortiz’s officers entered.
“Chief, we recovered Mr. Hartman’s phone.”
Gregory had initially refused to unlock it.
Ship security could preserve the device, but without the proper authority they could not simply search everything on it.
Then the officer placed another phone on the desk.
“This one was hidden inside the lining of his suitcase.”
A burner phone.
Ortiz stared at it.
“Was it powered on?”
“Yes.”
“And unlocked?”
The officer nodded.
My pulse accelerated.
Ortiz picked it up.
There were only twelve contacts.
None had names.
Just initials.
M.
S.P.
E.H.
One conversation had been deleted recently, but a notification remained on the lock screen.
PLAN CHANGED.
KEEP HER IN CABIN UNTIL 11:30.
Ortiz and I looked at each other.
The message had been sent less than an hour earlier.
“Eleven thirty,” I said.
“That’s in forty minutes.”
Ortiz immediately called her officers.
“Find out what’s scheduled at eleven thirty.”
The answer came within minutes.
Nothing.
No show.
No dinner.
No official event.
But at 11:30 p.m., according to the navigation schedule, the Ocean Crown would pass through a stretch of open sea where passenger balconies on our side of the ship faced almost complete darkness.
Ortiz’s expression hardened.
Then the burner phone vibrated.
A new message appeared.
IS SHE READY?
Ortiz typed nothing.
Another message came.
Gregory?
Then another.
DON’T GET SENTIMENTAL NOW.
My skin turned cold.
The sender was listed only as M.
Ortiz glanced at me.
“Do you know anyone close to your husband whose name starts with M?”
I did.
Only one person came immediately to mind.
Martin Hartman.
May you like
Gregory’s father.
The man who had given him the baseball bat.
