Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Noah
Elizabeth Delacroix spots me from the tennis court.
Her match has just ended and she’s surrounded by three women in white skirts and pastel layers, all of them sheathing their rackets and reaching for water bottles. It takes about three seconds for all four of their gazes to swing my way.
Could be because she mentioned my name.
Could be because I clearly don’t belong to this particular country club.
I stay where I am, leaning against the hood of Alicia’s Rivian, arms relaxed, posture easy. Neutral. Not a threat, not a supplicant—just a man waiting.
From a distance, the resemblance between Elizabeth and Alicia hits hard.
Both are lean, fit women with dark, glossy hair—Elizabeth’s pulled back for practicality.
Elizabeth is in her fifties, but if I didn’t know that from Quinn’s file, I’d shave at least a decade off.
Solitaire diamonds wink from her ears. A white visor and sunglasses shadow the finer details of her face, but the overall impression is polished, composed—exactly what I’d expect from a country club wife.
Her pleated skirt flares around still-toned legs, the whole look eerily close to a cheerleader uniform—if cheerleaders wore Cartier.
The women’s voices rise as they exit the court. From here it sounds like laughing goodbyes. One of them pulls Elizabeth into a hug. She stiffens, pats the woman’s back like it’s an obligation instead of instinct, and the message is clear: she’s not a hugger. Not unless she chooses to be.
When her friends peel away toward the clubhouse, Elizabeth heads for me. I push off the car, straightening.
“Noah Bennett?” she asks, voice crisp. No greeting, no small talk. Just confirmation.
“That’s me.”
She scans the lot, taking in cars, possibly scanning for anyone who might listen. Then she points toward a covered gazebo just off the courts. “Let’s talk over there. I only have fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I say.
“I appreciate you staying away from my home,” she counters.
There’s a blade hidden in that line. She’s used to wielding it.
“The police aren’t as considerate,” she adds, without prompting. “It’s not that I mind the questions, Mr. Bennett. I want to assist the investigation. But I have children. Neighbors. I don’t want them seeing the police on my front steps.”
Her voice wavers on the last words, just enough to betray what the sunglasses hide.
“I understand,” I say. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m working on the case.”
Inside the octagonal gazebo, she settles on one of the benches, crossing her legs. I take the one directly opposite, giving her space and a clear line of sight to the parking lot.
“But you’re not with the police,” she says. “You’re contacting the witness list and reviewing the persons of interest list.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, not impressed. “Are you working for Alicia Morgan?”
Whatever crack I heard a moment ago is gone. Her posture goes erect, shoulders squared, chin lifted. The temperature drops ten degrees.
“I’m supporting her defense team,” I say. “You could call it that.”
“You don’t believe she’s guilty.”
It isn’t a question. Still, I answer.
“No. I don’t.”
“Is that because she hired you,” she asks, “or because you have specific reasons?”
“Both.” I let the word sit between us, then add, “It doesn’t fit. She had no motive. She hadn’t seen him in years. I’m doing due diligence. I think the detective rushed this case—if I can find who actually murdered your husband, I help her and I help you.”
“Do you have proof she hadn’t seen him in years?”
Silence stretches for a beat. Some things can’t be proven—it comes down to pattern, instinct, belief.
“Do you not believe that to be true?” I ask.
“I take it you know Matt and Alicia had an affair,” she says.
“Yes,” I answer. “A long time ago.”
She nods once, sharply. “It was…a painful time. We spent years in therapy. Forgiveness wasn’t easy.
I want to believe he didn’t see her again.
I want to believe I wasn’t blind a second time.
” Her hands twist around her water bottle, the plastic rattling.
“But I agreed to speak with you because while I don’t like Alicia Morgan, I also don’t want her to go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit. ”
She takes a breath that sounds like it hurts. “And I’ll admit this, Mr. Bennett—if my alibi hadn’t been ironclad, I suspect I would’ve been on his list. A jilted wife?” Her fingers tap the face of her Apple watch. “I really do have ten minutes now. So. What can I tell you that’s useful?”
“How did you find out about the affair?” I ask. “I’m trying to understand how many people might have known.”
She slips off her sunglasses and lets them dangle loosely from one hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed but steady.
“Matt told me after it was over. Came up in therapy.” A bitter smile twists her mouth. “I’d suspected. You know when you know. I felt…completely gaslit. He agreed to step off her board. Did you know that? He helped her start her company. Recruited her board of advisors. I hosted her in my home.”
“You have every right to be angry,” I say quietly.
Her lips press together. She drags a fingertip under one eye, like she’s removing a stray lash, fighting the sting.
“I was furious,” she admits. “I went to group therapy. It helped more than one-on-one. Listening to other women rationalize men who didn’t deserve it…
” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I would’ve left Matt, but we had three kids.
Raising them alone felt harder than trying to fix us.
And the last couple of years…” Her voice thins.
“They were good. Or I thought they were good. I thought we’d done the work. ”
She jams the sunglasses back on like armor. “If I find out I’ve been mourning—my children have been mourning—a man who cheated again…”
The anger humming in her tone is the kind that could burn a house down. But it doesn’t feel like the kind that poisoned a husband.
“Alicia maintains she hadn’t seen him in years,” I say. “I believe her.”
“I know,” Elizabeth answers. “The detective told me she says that—but she also didn’t tell him about the affair.
Even so, I tend to believe her—I want to believe in him.
I tracked his phone for a long time after the affair.
At first because I didn’t trust him. Then because habit is easier to maintain than dismantle.
” She gives a tiny shrug. “His office wasn’t near hers.
A friend of mine was his assistant for years—she managed his schedule.
I don’t see where they would have…fit it in. But now…”
Her voice fractures. She digs a tissue pack out of her tennis bag.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, blotting at her eyes. “I keep ping-ponging between missing him and wanting to resurrect him so I can strangle him. That detective kept asking if there was anyone else he could have had an affair with, and now that’s all I can think about.”
I file that away. “If it helps,” I say, “I’ve been digging into this case for weeks. I haven’t seen a whisper of another affair. Not with Alicia, not with anyone else.” Although, truthfully, an affair with a woman other than Alicia isn’t an angle I’ve fully vetted.
“Then who?” she asks, voice raw. “Why?”
“Do you know much about his workload lately?” I ask. “What he was dealing with?”
“He’s in corporate PR,” she says. “His biggest clients are food manufacturers. He moved away from scandals years ago. Even when he and Alicia worked together, she took the crisis cases. He preferred long-term retainers and predictable contracts.” Her gaze meets mine.
“He was boring, Mr. Bennett. That’s what we wanted. Boring and safe.”
“Your group therapy sessions,” I say gently. “How many people were in those?”
Suspicion flickers, but she doesn’t shut down. “Why?”
“I’m trying to trace the leak,” I say. “Someone told that detective about the affair. Alicia believed no one knew. I’m trying to figure out who did.”
“‘No one knew,’” Elizabeth scoffs softly.
“That sounds like her.” She exhales. “Ms. Perfect would believe that. For the record, I didn’t owe Matt silence.
I told a couple of close friends. And the group therapist ran a program with women in difficult relationships.
We used first names only, but when you sit in a circle every week, you recognize faces.
People came and went. So did I. Three kids, school schedules, carpools.
” She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t have a list. I’m not even sure I’d recognize most of them now. ”
So much for shrinking the suspect pool.
“I understand,” I say. “I just needed to know if we were dealing with one confidante or a wider circle. Sounds like the latter.”
She checks her watch and rises. “I really have to go.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Delacroix,” I say, standing. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you missed anything this time. And I don’t think your husband’s death has anything to do with Alicia reliving old sins.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says quietly. “The police said they have conclusive evidence. I hope they’re wrong. I don’t want to have to explain Matt’s affair to our children. Right now, he’s their hero.”
She walks toward the lot with a measured stride. A black Mercedes SUV flashes its tail lights as it unlocks. She loads her tennis bag into the backseat, and I take a discreet shot of the license plate as she pulls away—not because she feels like a suspect, but because it never hurts to have data.
On my phone, I tap out a quick update to the team:
Met with ex-wife. Alibi: tennis match. Doesn’t feel suspicious. Shared that she told close friends and group therapy about affair.
The last line tastes like ash. If there was any hope of narrowing our focus by limiting who knew about the affair, it’s gone.
I shift my weight, and my boot nudges something on the ground. A cluster of plastic disks lies half-hidden in the gravel. I bend and pick them up.