Chapter 5
The Briefcase Man reached the nearest guest table, draped in heavy white silk and adorned with a cascading centerpiece of white roses. Without a word of apology, he swept his arm across the table, knocking crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and bone china to the floor. The shattering crash made the Bride flinch violently. He lifted the brown leather briefcase and placed it squarely in the cleared space.
“What is in that bag?” the Father asked, his voice shaking. The elder man looked as though he had aged ten years in the span of five minutes. “What agencies? I demand to know what is happening in my venue!”
“Your venue is currently a crime scene, sir,” the Briefcase Man replied, his hands hovering over the brass latches of the briefcase. “My name is Detective Elias Thorne. And this briefcase contains the answers you’ve been looking for since your daughter’s car went off the Pacific Coast Highway.”
“Don’t open it!” the Bride screamed, her voice tearing her vocal cords. She violently shoved the groom aside, scrambling over the elevated dais. “Dad, don’t let him open it! It’s a bomb, it’s poison, it’s—”
Click. Click.
The sharp, metallic snaps of the briefcase latches unfastening cut through her hysteria like a gunshot. The Bride froze, staring at the brown leather in absolute, paralyzed horror. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving so violently the emerald necklace bounced against her collarbone.
Elias slowly lifted the lid of the briefcase, angling it so the Father could see the contents perfectly. Inside, secured by leather straps, were stacks of financial ledgers, a thick manila folder, and a clear plastic evidence bag containing a burner phone.
“You see, Richard,” Elias said, leaning forward on the table. “When a car burns hot enough to melt an engine block, people assume all the evidence burns with it. But hitmen are greedy. And they like to keep receipts.”
“Receipts?” the Father whispered, stepping closer to the table, his eyes darting between Elias and the open case. “Receipts for what?”
“For the assassination of Caroline Vance,” Elias stated coldly. “Commissioned, funded, and overseen by the woman currently hyperventilating in the white dress.”
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“It’s a forgery!” the Bride wailed, wrapping her arms around herself. “He made it all up to extort us! Caroline put him up to this because she was jealous of my wedding!”
Caroline finally turned her whole body to face her sister, the hospital gown shifting against the marble floor. “Jealous, Isabella? You think I took a wire to the throat because I was jealous of your caterer?”
Chapter 6
“Explain this to me,” the Father demanded, his hands trembling as he reached toward the briefcase. “Don’t just throw accusations around! I need proof. Isabella is my daughter. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t do something like this.”
Elias smoothly intercepted the Father’s hand, gently but firmly pushing it back. “Do not touch the evidence, Richard. I’ll show you.” He pulled the thick manila folder from the case and flipped it open, revealing a series of glossy, high-resolution photographs.
“What are those?” the Bride choked out, taking a small step backward.
“Surveillance photos,” Elias answered, tossing the first photo onto the table. It showed a dark alleyway, illuminated only by a streetlamp. Two figures stood in the shadows. One was a large man with a shaved head. The other was a woman in a distinctive trench coat. “Taken three weeks before Caroline’s brakes conveniently failed on the cliffside.”
“That could be anyone!” Isabella shouted, though the color had completely drained from her face.
“Could it?” Elias tossed a second photo down. This one was a close-up, taken through a long lens. The woman in the trench coat was clearly visible, handing a thick manila envelope to the bald man. Around her neck, resting over the collar of the coat, was a massive, vibrant emerald necklace.
The Father gasped, stumbling back as if he had been physically struck. His eyes darted from the photograph on the table to the Bride’s neck, where the exact same emerald necklace currently rested.
“You wore mother’s necklace to a murder-for-hire meeting,” Caroline said, her voice dripping with a quiet, lethal disgust. “You couldn’t even leave her memory out of your blood money.”
“It’s photoshopped!” Isabella screamed, stepping backward until her spine hit the edge of the head table. “Caroline manipulated the photos! She always hated me, Dad, you know she did! She wanted the estate to herself!”
“Isabella,” the Father whispered, his voice cracking with a devastating realization. “That trench coat… I bought you that coat in Milan. It’s custom.”
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“It’s fake, Daddy, please!” she begged, tears finally streaming down her perfectly contoured face, ruining her makeup. “Tell them to leave! We can fix this, just get them out of here!”
“You can’t fix this,” Elias said, his gravelly voice cutting through her pleas. “Because the man in that photo? He didn’t die in the fire. We found him. And he was very, very cooperative.”
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