Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Historical Society’s reception room buzzed with quiet conversation as people clustered around the refreshment table. I was on my third finger sandwich—cucumber and cream cheese—when Helen Wong approached me.
We’d only met briefly before the service—a hurried introduction facilitated by Adelaide, where Helen had thanked me for agreeing to speak about her cousin. She was in her mid-sixties, sharp-eyed, and carried herself with quiet dignity.
“Mr. Sterling-Hart,” she said, then seemed to reconsider. “Leo. May I call you Leo?”
“Of course, please.”
“I wanted to thank you for your thoughtful remarks regarding Thomas.”
“It was my honor,” I said, setting down the half-eaten cucumber sandwich.
Helen’s expression flickered—something between grief and resignation.
“I never really knew Thomas that well. I lived in Toronto. I’d met him a handful of times at family gatherings when I was young—he seemed kind, and he had this infectious enthusiasm for architecture.
” She paused, her hands gripping her purse tightly.
“My aunt—Thomas’ mother—died without ever knowing what happened to him. ”
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly.
“It was different then,” Helen continued, her voice taking on a bitter edge.
“In the seventies, when a young Asian man disappeared from a small town, there wasn’t the same urgency from authorities.
My aunt filed missing person reports, hired a private investigator who took her money and found nothing.
She spent decades wondering—was he alive somewhere, unable to contact us?
Had he been in an accident? Had something terrible happened?
” She met my gaze. “The not knowing was its own kind of torture. At least now we have answers, even if they’re not the answers we wanted. ”
“You deserve more than answers,” I said.
“Perhaps.” Helen’s expression was weary. “But from what I understand from Sheriff Hawkins, justice may not be possible after all this time. Most of the people involved are dead or beyond prosecution.”
“I know.” The frustration in my chest was familiar by now—the helpless rage at a system that couldn’t deliver consequences for a terrible crime. “But I’m sure the sheriff won’t give up until he finds out who was actually responsible.”
“That’s something.” Helen’s composure cracked slightly. “Still, even if this is all we get, it’s better than never knowing anything.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
She excused herself then, moving to speak with Adelaide and Mrs. Henderson who were busily coordinating with some Historical Society members.
I watched her go, thinking about the ripple effects of Thomas’s death—not just his own life cut short, not just his baby who never got a chance to live, but all the family members who’d spent decades haunted by not knowing.
I finished my sandwich and returned to the refreshment table, claiming a chair near the window. I was still ravenous despite having just eaten. Pregnancy hunger was relentless—one moment satisfied, the next feeling like I hadn’t eaten in days.
I’d just balanced my fresh plate of sandwich wedges and a cup of fruit punch on my lap when Dominic appeared at my elbow.
“Leo, I’m gonna step outside for a while,” he said, his phone in hand. “I need to take this call, probably fifteen minutes. Blake needs me—something urgent that requires immediate attention.”
“It’s fine,” I assured him. “I’m just feeding the baby.”
“Stay right here,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that protective rumble that made his scent spike with pine. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”
“What trouble can I get into while eating finger sandwiches at a memorial reception?”
His eyes narrowed, sharp gray irises catching the light as he scrutinized my face. “That’s exactly the kind of statement from you that worries me. If—”
“Dom.” I touched his arm. “I’ll be fine—we’ll be fine. Go handle your business crisis. I’ll be right here, safely surrounded by finger sandwiches and elderly Historical Society members.”
I smiled serenely at him as I gently adjusted his scarf, making sure the wool protected his neck from the bitter cold. “And please don’t freeze while you’re out there.”
He hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to stay close to me and his professional obligations. “Fifteen minutes at most. Then we’re leaving.”
“Deal.”
He pressed a quick kiss to my temple before heading toward the hallway, phone already raised to his ear. I watched him go, then settled back in my chair with my plate.
I’d just bit into another cucumber sandwich when I heard a voice nearby.
“Mrs. Whitmore, let me get you positioned here by the window. The light’s better.”
My head snapped up. Mrs. Whitmore?
An elderly woman in a wheelchair was being positioned in the empty space beside my chair. Her aide—a middle-aged woman in comfortable shoes—adjusted the brake and then smoothed the blanket over the older woman’s lap, tucking it snugly around her thin legs until it cocooned her perfectly.
The woman sat very still, her shaking fingers gripping the armrests, staring out the window at the winter afternoon.
Her silver hair was pulled into an elegant bun, and she wore a simple black dress that suggested old money.
She wasn’t engaging with other attendees, wasn’t looking at the memorial displays. Just… sitting. Alone with her thoughts.
My heart hammered. Constance Whitmore. The judge’s widow. Here. Right beside me.
I should get Dominic. I should stay quiet, finish my sandwich, not engage.
But she was here. At Thomas’s memorial. After refusing every official interview.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” I said quietly.
She turned her head toward me, and up close I could see she had to be in her nineties. But there was something in the set of her jaw, the elegant way she held herself despite obvious frailty.
She studied me for a long moment, something complicated crossing her weathered face.
“Benji Sterling-Hart’s grandson,” she said finally, her voice surprisingly strong. “The one who gave the speech.”
“You knew my grandfather?”
“He made shoes for my daughter’s wedding.” Her gaze moved over my features, lingering on my hair. “You have the Sterling red hair. I remember Benji had it too, before it went as white as snow.”
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Leo.”
“Constance.” She watched my face for a reaction, and I’m sure she got one—subtle recognition, maybe a flash of unease I couldn’t quite hide. “I see you know who I am.”
The aide shifted nervously, clearly picking up on the sudden tension.
“You came all the way from Connecticut,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.
“I received an invitation.” Her gaze drifted toward the memorial display across the room, toward Thomas’ photographs. “From the Historical Society. They sent them to everyone who was involved with the preservation project back in 1973, or their surviving family members. I almost threw it away.”
“But you didn’t,” I said carefully.
“No.” Her voice dropped, soft against the ambient chatter in the room.
“I’ve refused to speak with Sheriff Hawkins.
My lawyers have been very insistent. My children—” she paused, something bitter crossing her face, “—they said cooperating opens us to liability, even after all these years. As if anything that happened in 1973 could touch us now.”
She was quiet for a moment, her hands twisting together in her lap.
“My doctor gave me six months, perhaps less... that was over a year ago.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. “When that invitation arrived, when I read the program and saw Thomas’ name…”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“Well, my lawyers and my children can’t stop me from attending a memorial service, can they?”
The aide shifted uncomfortably, clearly uncertain whether to intervene.
“You’re expecting,” Constance said, her gaze dropping to my belly.
I nodded, my hand moving instinctively to the small swell.
“I knew he was too,” she whispered. “Or rather, I suspected it—even went to his doctor and confronted one of the nurses, demanded to know if he was pregnant. I was certain he was carrying my husband’s child, you see. Certain they were having an affair.”
She took a shaky breath, her whole body trembling.
“It was May. A Historical Society fundraiser in the garden behind the courthouse. Thomas approached me when I was alone, away from the crowd. He said he’d discovered something terrible in the preservation project finances.
That he’d tried to talk to my husband—to the judge—but Harold kept putting him off, making excuses. ”
She paused, her fingers clenching white against her wheelchair.
“He said he needed help. Needed someone with influence to listen, to do something. And I…” Her voice broke.
“I laughed at him. I told him he had nerve approaching me, given that he’d been having an affair with my husband.
I told him I knew about the baby. That I knew what he was. ”
She couldn’t continue for a moment, shame and anguish warring across her features.
“I said if he didn’t stop pursuing my husband, if he didn’t leave Millcrest entirely, I’d make sure everyone knew exactly what kind of person he was.
That I’d destroy his career, his reputation, everything.
I’d make sure no one would hire him, that the baby would be born into shame and scandal. ”
My stomach turned. The cruelty of it—threatening not just Thomas but his unborn child, using his pregnancy as a weapon against him when he was already so vulnerable.
My inner omega instinctively recoiled—not just from the cruelty, but from the wrongness of it. Every omega understood the vulnerability of pregnancy, the desperate need for protection and support during that time. To weaponize that vulnerability against someone…
I suppressed the sudden primal urge to extricate myself from this situation and go locate my alpha.