60. Chapter 60
Cate
Present
Seth’s hand was still on mine when the first real tremor hit. Not the kind that shook my body, but the kind that shifted the room.
Like something inside me had stood up.
I pulled in a breath through my nose, slow, the way I used to when a client changed their mind mid-install and I had to keep my voice even. The way I used to when John teased me for being “too intense” about throw pillows. The way I used to when I didn’t need anyone’s permission to be angry.
I looked at Seth.
“Okay,” I said again, but this time it meant something different.
His expression changed, subtle, but I caught it.
“Tell me,” I said. “How.”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor like the carpet might offer him a better version of this conversation.
When he finally looked back up, his eyes were full of pain, a fear I hadn’t seen in ten years.
I suspected he wasn’t afraid of the truth, just what the truth would do once he spoke it to life.
“You said you didn’t want details,” he reminded me quietly.
“I don’t,” I said. Then, after a moment, “Not the… the worst parts. But I need to understand what they’re saying. I need to know what’s real.”
Seth’s jaw flexed once, then he nodded.
“Marshal thinks John was taken at that park just down the street from the house,” he said. “The night he went for that walk.”
My stomach clenched, but I stayed still.
“The file from ten years ago, what was left of it anyway, had notes about blunt force trauma. The autopsy photos showed a bullet wound in his stomach, but no mention of it anywhere else,” he continued. “It wasn’t an accident or a fall. It was… intentional.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the couch cushion without me meaning to.
“They believe he was hit hard enough to incapacitate him,” he said. “Then he was moved. Fast.”
The word felt wrong. Moved - like furniture or an object. Like something you did to make a mess disappear.
I swallowed. “So, he didn’t… he didn’t die there.”
Seth shook his head once. “No.”
My chest tried to fold in on itself. I forced it open.
“What else?” I asked.
He held my gaze for a moment, measuring me. Then he spoke like he was walking across thin ice, placing each word down carefully, testing it before he let go.
“The injuries on the body they cremated,” he said, “weren’t consistent with someone who died by accident. There was… rage in it, Cate.”
I blinked hard. “How do they know that? If he was unrecognizable…”
“Because of what was done to him,” Seth said, quietly but firm. “Not just to kill him, but to make sure no one could bring him back.”
I felt something sharp and hot move through me, cutting cleanly through the grief.
Anger.
Not wild or screaming.
Focused.
“Marshal thinks whoever did it had time,” he went on. “Privacy. Control. And enough confidence to believe they wouldn’t get caught.”
My stomach turned and I forced myself to swallow.
“And the man with John’s ID… the one who turned up dead a couple weeks ago?”
Seth nodded. “Marshal believes he was involved somehow. Maybe paid. Maybe pressured. Maybe both.”
“And he kept John’s things,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” Seth said. “Marshal thinks he kept them because he couldn’t… let them vanish completely. Or because they were insurance. Or because guilt does weird things to people who aren’t complete monsters.”
My throat tightened. “And now he’s dead.”
Seth’s mouth flattened. “Now he’s dead. And suddenly John’s things exist again, ten years later, like someone opened a drawer that should’ve been sealed.”
I stared at the far wall; at the perfectly neutral art Trevor had chosen. Everything in this house was like that, calculated to be acceptable, calming, clean.
Nothing that screamed or protested.
I brought my attention back to Seth. “What does Marshal think happened after John was taken?”
He hesitated.
My pulse climbed. “Seth.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was letting the last shred of denial leave his lungs.
“He thinks John was held,” Seth said. “At least for some amount of time.”
The room tilted, and my skin prickled.
I couldn’t tell if the sudden cold was memory or imagination or intuition, but it slid along my spine anyway, quiet and invasive.
“How long?” I asked, and my voice didn’t sound like mine.
Seth shook his head. “We don’t know. Marshal doesn’t know. Not yet. That’s what he’s trying to confirm. That’s part of the timeline he’s trying to rebuild.”
Rebuild.
Out of ash.
Out of scraps.
Out of whatever someone else decided was all I deserved.
I pressed the heel of my hand into my sternum, grounding myself. “So what does he want from me?”
Seth’s gaze softened. “He wants a timeline. Context. Access. He wants names, Cate. He wants to know who was close enough to John to hate him.”
My breath caught.
Not because of the question, but because of how quickly my mind supplied answers I didn’t want to consider.
Seth watched my face. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
I looked down at our hands again, his covering mine, steady and familiar. Supportive.
“Did Marshal say… anything else?” I asked carefully. “About suspects.”
Seth’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, toward the front door, like he could hear a car engine in the distance even if it wasn’t there.
“He said something that’s been sitting in my gut since the first time he called me,” Seth said. “He said this wasn’t just personal. It was protected.”
“Protected,” I repeated.
He nodded once. “It’s like someone helped it stay buried, made sure the file was closed. Like someone made sure nobody asked questions.”
Bile climbed up the back of my throat.
“When we met Marshal before the wedding,” I said, suddenly remembering something. “He looked… annoyed,” I whispered. “Not at me. Just… like something wasn’t lining up.”
Seth nodded again. “That’s when he started digging.”
I stared at him. “And Trevor…”
Seth’s expression sharpened, a subtle warning. He didn’t say Trevor’s name. He just held my eyes, steady and grim, like he didn’t want to drag me into a conclusion I wasn’t ready to face.
But I was already there.
Maybe I’d been there since the moment Trevor corrected the world into a plan.
Maybe I’d been there since the first time he offered to “handle the logistics.”
Maybe I’d been there for ten years, mistaking his controlled containment for care because it was easier than living in freefall.
Seth leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, matching my posture. A mirror, not a wall. “Cate… if you’re starting to think what I think you’re starting to think…”
“I don’t know what I think,” I cut in, fast and sharp. Then I softened it, because Seth didn’t deserve my panic. “I just know something’s wrong. And I know I’ve been letting everyone else decide what I can handle.”
Seth nodded slowly. “Okay.”
I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, the simple action doing little to calm my nerves.
“Call Marshal,” I said.
Seth blinked. “Now?”
I stared at him. “Not you. Me.”
His expression flickered - surprise, then something like pride.
“Cate…” he started.
“I want to hear it from him,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake this time. “Not filtered. Not managed. Not… softened.”
Seth held my gaze for a long beat. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Okay. But I’m staying. And you should put it on speaker.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
I picked up my phone, scrolled, and found Detective Marshal’s number from the call log, still there like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.
My thumb hovered over the button. My pulse pounded in my ears.
Then I hit call.
The ring sounded too loud in the controlled quiet of Trevor’s house.
Once.
Twice.
Seth’s knee bounced once, then stilled.
A click.
“Detective Marshal.”
My breath hitched and I steadied it.
“This is Cate,” I said. “Cate Reeder.”
Seth’s eyes flicked to me, quick.
I corrected myself before the detective could.
“Cate Larkin,” I added quietly. “I… I need to talk to you.”
There was a pause on the line. Not long. Just long enough to feel like he’d been waiting for my voice.
“Ms. Larkin,” Marshal said, gentler than before. “I’m glad you called. Are you safe right now?”
I opened my mouth just as a sound caught my attention.
A key turning in the lock.
My whole body went rigid.
Seth’s head snapped toward the door.
The deadbolt slid back with a quiet click, and I stared at the front door as it began to open.
And somewhere on my phone, Detective Marshal was still waiting for my answer.