CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jennifer Grisham turned the letter opener over in her hands, studying the engraved name that ran along its slender silver blade.
Mary Latrobe. The letters were elegant, scripted in a way that suggested someone had paid good money for this little vanity item.
Jennifer traced her thumb along the edge.
It was sharp enough to do real damage if wielded with intent.
She set it back down on the desk and looked around the home office.
The space was small but meticulously organized, every surface covered with cheerful reminders of Mary Latrobe’s travel agency success.
A framed photo showed Mary standing in front of Cinderella's Castle at Disney World, her arm around a beaming client.
Another showed her at Epcot with a group of smiling women holding Second Act Success certificates.
Travel brochures were stacked neatly in a wire rack, each one featuring destinations Mary specialized in booking for her growing client base.
Disney trinkets crowded the shelves. A set of Mickey Mouse ears hung from a hook. A collection of resort pins filled a shadow box on the wall. Even the desk lamp had a base shaped like Tinker Bell. Everything was bright, colorful, and optimistic in a way that made Jennifer's stomach turn.
Eight months. That was how long Mary had been riding this wave of success.
Her boutique travel agency had taken off after she completed Crawford's program, specializing in group trips for women over fifty who wanted adventure without the hassle of planning it themselves.
Disney trips, European river cruises, wine country tours.
Mary had found her niche and was thriving in it.
Jennifer picked up the letter opener again.
She had been thriving once, too. Her bakery had been the success story Crawford loved to parade around for a few weeks.
It had been featured in every promotional video, quoted in every testimonial packet, photographed for the program materials with her signature lavender scones and her bright smile.
Women from Second Act Success had filled her shop daily during that first year, eager to meet the baker who had turned her passion into profit.
They bought scones and muffins and asked for advice, and Jennifer had loved every minute of it.
Then the attention shifted as new success stories emerged.
And it had shifted fast. Mary and her travel agency.
Someone else with a consulting business.
Another woman who had opened a yoga studio.
Crawford moved on to fresher faces, newer testimonials, and Jennifer's bakery slowly faded from the spotlight. She’d never actually suffered or been in any real danger of going out of business, but she still feared she’d never reach that peak again.
Sales had started to slip three months ago.
Not dramatically, but enough to notice. The morning rush was smaller.
The afternoon crowd thinner. The special orders that used to fill her weekends had dried up.
She was still profitable, technically, but the trajectory was wrong.
She could see where this was headed if nothing changed.
And then there was David. Her husband had started working late more often.
Coming home with excuses that sounded plausible but felt hollow.
She had found texts on his phone two weeks ago, messages to Carrie, the girl who used to work the counter at the bakery until Jennifer had to let her go.
The messages were innocent enough on the surface, but the frequency and timing told a different story.
Everything was slipping away. The success, the attention, the marriage. Jennifer had worked too hard to let it all crumble now.
She heard movement in the adjoining room where Mary kept her filing cabinets and travel resources.
Papers rustling, a drawer sliding open. Mary was gathering materials for their appointment, probably pulling brochures and itineraries for Iceland.
It was, after all, where Jennifer had said she’d like to go…
even though she had no intention of travelling anytime soon.
The appointment had been easy to arrange.
She’d sent a casual text message yesterday afternoon asking if Mary had any availability for an after-hours consultation.
Jennifer had mentioned wanting to get away, maybe Iceland, somewhere she could clear her head.
Mary had responded within minutes, always eager for new business—especially, Mary had said, for a fellow second Act Success sister.
She’d asked if 8:00 was okay, at her home office.
No problem at all.
Jennifer glanced at her watch. It was now 8:10; some of the appointment time had been filled with Mary’s trivial bullshit small-talk.
Mary had welcomed her in ten minutes ago, apologized for not being quite ready, and disappeared into the other room to gather materials.
Jennifer had said she didn't mind waiting, that she was in no rush.
She'd settled into the guest chair across from Mary's desk and waited for her opportunity.
And, of course, had plucked the letter opener right off of the little stand it had come with. So pretentious…
And now that opportunity was coming. Mary's footsteps approached from the adjoining room, accompanied by the sound of folders being shuffled.
"Sorry about the wait," Mary called out from the other room. "I wanted to pull some specific packages I think you'll love. Iceland in September is absolutely gorgeous from what I understand. I’ve never been there myself, but—"
Jennifer stood and moved behind the desk, her hand hovering near the letter opener. Her heart was beating fast but her hands were steady. She'd thought this through carefully. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Mary appeared in the doorway with a smile on her face, holding several glossy folders and what looked like a tablet. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white blouse, clearly comfortable working from home. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.
"Okay, so I pulled three different itineraries that might work for you.
" Mary walked into the office, her eyes on the materials in her hands.
"The first one is a ten-day tour that hits all the major attractions.
The second focuses more on the natural hot springs and hiking.
And the third is more of a luxury experience with. .."
She trailed off as she looked up and registered that Jennifer was no longer sitting in the guest chair. Mary's eyes found her standing behind the desk, too close to Mary's personal space. Confusion flickered across her face.
"Jennifer? What are you..."
Jennifer moved forward in one smooth motion. Mary's confusion shifted to alarm, but she was too slow to react. Jennifer drove the blade of the letter opener into her chest, just below the ribcage. The folders and tablet fell from Mary's hands, scattering across the floor.
Mary made a sound between a gasp and a cry. She stumbled backward, her hand going to her chest. Her fingers touched the handle of the letter opener still embedded there. Blood was already spreading across her white blouse, dark and wet.
"Why?" Mary's voice was barely a whisper. Her eyes were wide with shock and disbelief. This was someone she'd thought was a client, a colleague… maybe even a friend. The betrayal and hurt were also buried in there with the shock and pain.
Jennifer didn't answer. She stepped back and watched as Mary grabbed at the desk chair for support. The chair rolled slightly under her weight. Mary's breathing was shallow and rapid, her face draining of color as shock set in.
The Disney memorabilia surrounding them seemed absurd now. Mickey Mouse ears hanging on the wall. Tinker Bell lamp casting cheerful light over a murder scene. All that forced optimism surrounding a woman bleeding out in her home office.
Mary tried to speak again but couldn't form words. She slumped into the chair, her hand still pressed uselessly against the wound. Blood continued to spread, soaking through her blouse and beginning to pool on the floor beneath the chair.
There was a knock at the front door. Loud and insistent.
Jennifer's head snapped toward the sound. Her heart hammered against her ribs as panic flooded through her. She looked down at her hands and saw Mary's blood on her fingers, dark red and still wet. The knocking came again, more persistent this time.
"Mary? Mary Latrobe?”
It was a woman's voice. A neighbor, maybe, or a friend who had stopped by without calling first. Jennifer looked back at Mary, who was still slumped in her chair, barely conscious but not quite dead.
Blood continued to spread across her blouse and was starting to pool on the floor beneath the chair.
The knocking continued. Jennifer looked around the office, searching for a way out that wouldn't take her past the front door. There was a window, but it faced the street. Running out the back door would mean crossing through the kitchen and living room, both visible from the front entrance.
She was trapped, standing in a home office with a dying woman and blood on her hands, while someone stood on the other side of the front door waiting for an answer.