Chapter 16 #2
I felt a distant pulse of concern through the bond—Dominic had noticed my distress from wherever he was taking his call. I tried to project reassurance, to calm him so he wouldn’t feel the need to come flying to my defense from whatever imagined scenario he was probably concocting.
“But he wasn’t having an affair with your husband,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.
“No.” Constance said, shaking her head. “I learned that later, after Harold died and I found papers in his safe deposit box. Evidence Thomas had given him about the financial crimes. He was trying to convince my husband to help expose corruption. He was trying to do the right thing.”
She looked at me. “And I threatened him. What kind of person does that?”
The aide stepped forward, alarm clear on her face now. “Mrs. Whitmore, perhaps we should—”
“In a moment, Sandra.” Constance waved her off with a weak gesture, her attention fixed on me. “I need to say this. I’ve needed to say it for a long time now.”
“Did you kill him?” The question came out before I could stop it, too blunt, too direct. But I needed to know.
“No.” Constance’s answer was immediate and sincere. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. I was cruel to him, I threatened him, I failed him when he asked for my help. But I didn’t take his life.”
I studied her face, analyzing every micro-expression, every shift in her weathered features. She believed what she was saying—I was certain of that. But belief and truth weren’t always the same thing.
“Your husband,” I said carefully. “Judge Whitmore. Could he have—”
“Harold was many things, most of them not good.” Constance’s voice carried decades of bitter analysis.
“He was a drunk, a philanderer, compromised by corruption and weakness. But he was also a coward.” She met my eyes.
“Violence requires a kind of courage, even terrible courage. The courage to act, to make an irrevocable choice. Harold didn’t have that.
He liked power, yes… I think that’s why he became a judge, but he preferred to look away, to pretend problems didn’t exist if acknowledging them required action. ”
Constance was quiet for a long moment, her eyes clouding with distant memories as the lines around her mouth deepened.
“Mrs. Whitmore—” I started, but she cut me off.
“I came here today because that invitation wouldn’t let me rest.” Her voice had taken on a note of finality, as if she’d said what she came to say and now needed to leave.
“Because I’m running out of time.” She looked at my stomach.
She reached out with an unsteady hand, and I instinctively took it. Her grip was surprisingly strong despite the trembling.
A presence appeared at my shoulder—familiar pine and cinnamon cutting through the reception hall’s mingled scents. I didn’t need to look to know Dominic had returned, though his fifteen minutes couldn’t possibly be up yet.
Constance’s rheumy eyes shifted past me, sharp despite her age. She studied the figure behind me with the kind of assessing gaze that came from decades of experience navigating social hierarchies and power dynamics. “And you would be the mate, I presume.”
“Dominic.” His voice was calm, controlled. Not rushed or panicked—just present. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Dominic Steele.”
“Ah.” Her gaze moved between us with sharp intelligence. “Your omega is a curious one—he asks many questions.”
“I’m aware,” Dominic said evenly. Through our bond, I sensed he was reading the situation, assessing.
“A noble quality,” Constance continued, her expression holding something that might have been approval or might have been pity. “It got Thomas Wong killed. It could get your mate killed too, along with the child he’s carrying.”
I immediately felt Dominic’s response—a sharp spike of fury. I turned to look him, finding only an impassive mask. His thumb traced a small circle against my shoulder blade.
“Thomas’ killer wasn’t solely responsible for his death. Culpability lays with everyone who should have protected him and didn’t.” Constance said. “Including me.”
Sandra moved forward, her professional patience clearly exhausted.
“We really need to go,” the aide said firmly, already releasing the wheelchair brake. “The doctor was very clear about not overexerting yourself.”
Constance nodded wearily, suddenly looking every one of her ninety-one years.
The brief moment of intensity drained away, leaving only exhaustion.
“Yes. Of course. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.
I thought... I don’t know what I thought.
That confession would bring peace, perhaps. But some things can’t be absolved.”
“Wait,” I said as Sandra began wheeling her away. “If you think of anything else, anything that might help—”
“I’ve told you what I can,” Constance said, not looking back. “The rest... the rest is between me and whatever judgment awaits me.”
Sandra navigated the wheelchair through the thinning crowd and out the main entrance. We were silent for a moment, watching them disappear. My heart was still racing, my mind spinning through everything Constance had revealed.
Finally, I turned to look up at Dominic. “That wasn’t fifteen minutes.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “No. It wasn’t.”
“What happened to Blake’s urgent crisis?”
“I hung up on him.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I almost laughed despite everything.
“You hung up on him?” I repeated.
“I felt you calling for me through the bond.” His hand moved from my shoulder to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His breath escaped in a huff, the sound caught between resignation and amusement. “I can’t even leave you alone for fifteen minutes. You’re a handful, you know that?”
“I was only having a conversation with a ninety-one-year-old woman in a wheelchair,” I pointed out, but I couldn’t quite keep the warmth out of my voice.
“I didn’t know that until I got here.” His lips quirked slightly. “For all I knew, you’d somehow managed to flip the table of refreshments on top of you.”
“Well now, that’s just ridiculous,” I said, insulted by the image.
The eyebrow went higher. “Leo.”
“Technically, she did confess to threatening Thomas and suspecting he was pregnant when she did it,” I admitted. “So she’s not entirely uninvolved.”
“Right.” Dominic’s voice was dry. “Not entirely uninvolved. Nothing concerning about that at all.”
“You’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m recovering from a momentary rush of panic—that you instigated—and trying to hide it with sarcasm,” he corrected. His steel-gray eyes held mine, and through our bond I felt exactly what he meant—the raw fear and now relief beneath his controlled exterior.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“Never be sorry for calling me when you need me.”
“Even if it means hanging up on Blake during important business calls?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment.
“Especially then.” He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Blake’s scrappy. He’ll survive well enough on his own. But if something happened to you...” He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t need to. I felt the rest through our bond.
“Ready to get home.” He straightened, his hand moving to my lower back in that protective gesture that had become second nature.
It wasn’t really a question, but I answered anyway. “Yeah.”
“Tired?”
“I’m fine,” I protested, but even as the words left my mouth, I realized how drained I felt. The memorial service, the speech, Helen Wong’s resigned grief, Constance’s confession—it was all catching up with me.
“I’ve had enough emotional upheaval for one day.” Dominic said, guiding me toward the exit. His alpha scent wrapped around me, settling something anxious in my chest. “And our baby needs you to rest.”
He was right, of course. And as we left the Historical Society building, stepping out into the winter air, I let myself lean into his warmth.
Through the window, I caught one last glimpse of the memorial display—Thomas’s photographs smiling out at a world that had failed him.
“What are you thinking?” Dominic asked as we reached his car and he opened the passenger door for me.
“Constance suspected Thomas was pregnant,” I said quietly, settling into the seat. “And if she figured it out, others might have known too. What if that person saw the pregnancy as a problem that needed eliminating?”
He closed my door and rounded to the driver’s side, sliding in beside me. “Meaning the motive had nothing to do with—”
“Hiding financial crimes,” I finished. I placed my free hand over my stomach, feeling the small swell that held our child. “What if the criminal activities at the time are a red herring?”