Chapter 8
The next three months were a blur of court dates and media attention.
The trial was the biggest the state had ever seen.
Ryan and Brooke were tried together.
Jesse and Arthur testified against them in exchange for reduced sentences.
The evidence was overwhelming.
The texts.
The emails.
The insurance policies.
Jesse’s confession.
Arthur’s testimony.
Ryan tried to plead insanity.
Said the stress of his failing business had made him do terrible things.
Nobody bought it.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
Guilty on all counts.
Two counts of first-degree murder.
Conspiracy to commit murder.
Insurance fraud.
Embezzlement.
Attempted murder of me.
The judge sentenced him to life without parole.
Plus two hundred and fifty years.
He’d die in prison.
Alone.
Hated.
Forgotten.
Brooke tried to cut a deal.
Said Ryan had forced her.
Threatened her.
Said she’d been a victim too.
The jury didn’t buy that either.
Guilty on all counts except the embezzlement.
Life with the possibility of parole after forty years.
She’d be seventy when she got out.
If she lived that long.
Jesse got twenty years.
Arthur got fifteen.
The mayor and chief of police resigned in disgrace.
Charged with corruption and bribery.
The insurance company settled a civil suit against me for an undisclosed amount.
More money than I could ever spend in three lifetimes.
I donated every penny of it.
To children’s hospitals.
To domestic violence shelters.
To organizations that helped families who’d lost loved ones to drunk drivers and dangerous roads.
I couldn’t keep blood money.
Not even the good kind.
The house was sold.
Too many memories.
Too many ghosts.
I bought a small cottage by the ocean.
Far away.
Somewhere no one knew my name.
Somewhere I could breathe.
I thought that would be the end of it.
I thought I could finally heal.
Finally move on.
I was wrong.
Six months after the trial, I got a letter.
No return address.
Postmarked from the maximum-security prison where Ryan was being held.
I opened it with trembling hands.
His handwriting was still the same.
Neat.
Precise.
Arrogant.
Megan,
You think you won. You think you destroyed me. But you’re wrong. You think you’re so much better than me. So much smarter. But you’re just like I was. Cold. Calculating. Willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want.
You spent three months playing the grieving widow. Lying to everyone. Manipulating the police. The media. The jury. You set us all up. And you got away with it. Because the world wanted to believe the poor, broken mother was innocent.
But I know the truth.
And I’m not the only one.
You forgot about someone.
Someone who was there the day of the crash.
Someone who saw everything.
Someone who’s been waiting.
Watching.
Planning.
You think it’s over?
It’s only just beginning.
The person who’s coming for you? They’re not like me. They’re not like Brooke. They won’t make the same mistakes. They won’t underestimate you.
They’re going to take everything you have left.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And when you have nothing?
They’re going to kill you.
And this time?
There won’t be any trials.
Any evidence.
Any second chances.
Enjoy your little house by the ocean, Megan.
Enjoy your money.
Your freedom.
It won’t last.
— Ryan
I read the letter three times.
Then I burned it.
Watched the black ash float up the fireplace chimney.
Ryan was in prison.
He had no power.
No money.
No friends left on the outside.
He was just a bitter, angry man trying to scare me.
That was all.
I told myself that.
Repeated it like a mantra.
But I didn’t believe it.
Not completely.
He was right about one thing.
I had forgotten someone.
Someone who’d been there.
Someone who’d seen.
The police report had mentioned a witness.
A truck driver.
He’d been behind us on the road.
He’d seen the crash.
Given a statement.
Said it looked like hydroplaning.
Said Ryan had tried to stop.
Said there was nothing anyone could have done.
His name was Frank Carter.
No relation.
I’d thought it was a coincidence at the time.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I pulled out my laptop.
Started digging.
Frank Carter.
Fifty-two years old.
Long-haul truck driver.
Wife had died five years ago.
One son.
Died in the war in Afghanistan.
No other family.
Clean record.
Nothing suspicious.
Until I found the connection.
Frank’s son had been in the same unit as Ryan’s younger brother.
The one who’d died in Iraq.
Ryan had paid for Frank’s son’s funeral.
Paid off Frank’s mortgage.
Set up a trust fund for him.
They’d been friends for ten years.
Close friends.
Frank hadn’t just been a witness.
He’d been planted.
His statement had been the final nail in the “accident” coffin.
The police had believed him.
Everyone had believed him.
Because he was just a regular guy.
A truck driver.
A grieving father.
Why would he lie?
And now?
Frank was the only one left who could destroy everything I’d built.
If he came forward.
Said he’d been pressured.
Bribed.
Threatened.
Said I’d manipulated the evidence.
Framed Ryan.
It could all unravel.
The convictions.
The settlements.
My freedom.
And according to Ryan’s letter?
That was exactly what he planned to do.
I closed my laptop.
Looked out at the ocean.
The sun was setting.
Painting the water red.
Like blood.
I’d thought the war was over.
But Ryan was right.
It had only just changed battlefields.
And this time, the enemy was someone I’d never see coming.
Someone who had nothing left to lose.
I stood up.
Walked to the closet.
Pulled out the old burner phone.
I’d kept it.
Just in case.
Turned it on.
Waited for it to connect.
And I started digging again.
This time, I wasn’t investigating a murder that had already happened.
I was trying to stop one before it did.
And I knew from experience that the best defense was a very, very good offense.
Frank Carter was about to learn the same lesson Ryan had.
May you like
Never underestimate a grieving mother.
Especially one who’s already won once.
