55. Chapter 55
Cate
Present
The chair felt colder than it looked.
Detective Marshal opened a legal pad in front of him, pen resting but not yet moving.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he said. “I appreciate you coming in.”
Trevor nodded. “Of course.”
The detective’s eyes flicked to him, then back to me.
“Mrs. Reeder,” he said carefully, “before we begin, I want to be clear. This is not an interrogation. You’re not in any trouble.”
My chest loosened a fraction.
Trevor spoke before I could. “We understand. Cate’s been through a lot.”
The detective inclined his head. “That’s exactly why I want to proceed carefully.”
He turned to me again. “If at any point you need a break, or don’t want to answer something, just say so.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Trevor’s hand slid into mine beneath the table. His thumb brushed across my knuckles once, reassuring.
“I know I asked you some of this before,” Detective Marshal said, pen finally moving. “But I need to hear it again. From the beginning. Let’s start simple. When was the last time you saw Johnathan Rosewood?”
My throat tightened. I glanced down before answering.
“Ten years ago,” I said. “The week before our wedding.”
Trevor’s grip firmed - not stopping me, just reminding me he was there.
“And at that time,” the detective continued, “was there any indication he intended to leave town?”
“No,” I said quickly. “None.”
Trevor nodded along, like we were telling a shared story.
The ease of it unsettled me, how smoothly the words still fit together.
“He’d gone for a walk,” I added. “He needed time to think. That wasn’t unusual.”
The detective wrote something down. “Did he say what he was thinking about?”
I hesitated.
Trevor answered, gently. “Wedding nerves. He was close with Seth Peterson - there was some tension there. Normal things.”
Normal…
The word landed smoothly, sanding down the edge of memory.
The detective looked at me. “Does that align with your recollection?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
Another note.
“Did John have any enemies?” he asked. “Anyone you’re aware of who might have wanted to harm him?”
My stomach twisted. I shook my head. “No. He was… good. He didn’t fight with people. He didn’t make enemies.”
Trevor squeezed my hand once, approving.
“Were there any financial concerns?” Marshal asked. “Debts? Legal issues?”
“No,” Trevor said. “John was stable. Employed. Responsible.”
The detective’s pen paused mid-line.
“Mr. Reeder,” he said evenly, “I’ll ask that you let Mrs. Reeder answer when possible.”
Trevor didn’t bristle. He smiled apologetically.
“Of course,” he said. “I just want to make sure nothing gets misunderstood.”
“I appreciate that,” Marshal replied. His gaze sharpened - not hostile, but alert. “Mrs. Reeder?”
I swallowed. “No. There weren’t any problems like that.”
He wrote again.
There was a brief silence before he continued.
“You were out of town when we confirmed the identification,” he said. “Can you tell me where you were?”
“On our honeymoon,” I said softly.
“St. Lucia,” Trevor added, smooth as silk. “We returned two days ago.”
Marshal looked up. “Congratulations. I’m sorry the timing was… this.”
Trevor nodded solemnly. “So are we.”
The detective studied us for a moment longer than necessary. I felt like a specimen under glass.
“Mrs. Reeder,” he said carefully, “I want to ask you something difficult.”
My pulse quickened.
Trevor’s hand stilled in mine for just a moment, then resumed its gentle pressure.
“In the years since John disappeared,” he continued, “did you ever suspect someone close to you, someone he trusted, might have been involved?”
The room went very still.
My mind snagged on Seth’s voice, his words. Someone close.
Before I could respond, Trevor leaned forward slightly.
“That’s a heavy implication,” he said calmly.
Marshal didn’t look away. “It’s a necessary question.”
Trevor turned to me then, his expression softening, grounding. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just answer honestly.”
I searched myself, thinking through all the people we had known, the people I now knew.
“No,” I said finally. “I never thought that.”
It was true. Or at least, it had been.
The detective nodded, but his pen didn’t move.
“One last thing,” he said. “We may need to speak with you again. Separately.”
Trevor’s hand stilled in mine.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said politely. “If you have further questions, I’ll be present.”
Marshal met his gaze. The air between them tightened, subtle and electric.
“That may not be possible,” the detective said evenly.
Trevor smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“We’ll see.”
The detective closed his notebook.
“For now,” he said, standing, “that’s all.”
Trevor rose immediately, pulling my chair back before I could move on my own.
I stood, but my feet didn’t follow. Something held me back, sharp and insistent, deep in my chest.
“Wait.”
Trevor’s hand tightened slightly at my back. “Cate…”
I turned anyway, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “John’s really dead?”
For the first time, something in Detective Marshal’s expression softened. “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The words felt heavy and final and something inside me fractured.
Trevor’s hand pressed more firmly between my shoulder blades, guiding me toward the door before I could respond. “Thank you, Detective,” he said smoothly. “We’ll be in touch.”