Chapter 3 - Daniel’s Perfect GriefDaniel Whitmore had always known how to perform.
At charity dinners, he performed humility. At business meetings, he performed concern. At church, he performed devotion. At Claire’s funeral, he had planned to perform grief.
He had even practiced.
The black suit. The trembling voice. The folded handkerchief. The speech about losing the love of his life before they could marry in the spring. The promise to honor her legacy.
But grief is easier to perform when the dead stay dead.
Now Daniel sat in a police interview room, still wearing his funeral suit, his cufflinks engraved with Claire’s initials.
Detective Maria Sloane watched him through the glass before entering. She had seen guilty men before. Some sweated. Some shouted. Some cried. Daniel did none of those things.
He adjusted his cuffs.
That worried her more.
When she entered, he gave her a tired smile. “Detective, I hope we can clear this up quickly. My family has already suffered enough.”
“Your family?” Sloane asked, sitting down.
“My fiancée’s family.”
“Claire Reed was your fiancée, not your wife.”
Daniel’s smile tightened. “A technicality.”
“Life and death are full of technicalities.”
He folded his hands. “Claire suffered a collapse at home. She was transported to Westbridge Medical. A doctor declared her dead. I arranged a funeral. Then her son violently disrupted it. I don’t know what else there is to say.”
Sloane slid a photo across the table.
Daniel glanced at it.
The cracked casket.
Claire’s open eyes.
His nostrils flared once.
“Must have been traumatic for you,” Sloane said.
“It was horrifying.”
“For Claire?”
“For everyone.”
Sloane leaned back. “Claire says you gave her tea.”
“I often made tea.”
“She says you tried to burn her room.”
Daniel laughed softly. “She was oxygen-deprived and confused.”
“Maybe.”
Sloane placed another paper down.
The note Claire scratched inside the casket.
NOT A STROKE.
Daniel stared too long.
Then he looked up. “Where did you get that?”
Sloane smiled. “Interesting question.”
“I mean, obviously, if Claire wrote it while confused—”
“You didn’t ask whether she wrote it. You asked where we got it.”
For the first time, Daniel looked irritated.
“Detective, I buried the woman I loved this morning. I am not in the mood for word games.”
Sloane stood. “Good. Neither am I.”
She walked to the door, then paused.
“One more thing. Noah says Claire kept a locked journal.”
Daniel’s expression didn’t move.
But his fingers did.
Just once.
A tiny twitch.
Sloane saw it.
So she added, “We haven’t found it yet.”
Daniel finally smiled again.
“That’s unfortunate.”
And in that smile, Detective Sloane understood two things.
May you like
The journal mattered.
And Daniel thought he had already destroyed it.
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