Chapter 3 - The Unraveling of Truth
The next morning, Adrian was gone before dawn. A terse text message glowed on my screen: Gone to the office early. Emergency client meeting. Don’t wait up.
I knew there was no client meeting. Summer posted a story on Instagram at 7:15 AM—a close-up of a artisanal latte resting on a rustic wooden table at The Daily Grind downtown, captioned: Morning comfort with my favorite person. Tagged in the corner, almost invisibly small, was Adrian’s personal account handle. She had deleted the tag within three minutes, but not before my screenshot captured it in pristine, high-resolution detail.
I didn’t call him. I didn’t yell. I got dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit that completely concealed the bandages on my shoulder and drove straight to downtown Charleston.
My first stop wasn’t a lawyer’s office. It was a modest, unassuming brick building tucked away on King Street—a private investigative firm run by an old college friend of my brother’s, Marcus Vance.
Marcus looked up from his cluttered desk as the bell above the door chimed. His eyes widened behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Evelyn? Good lord, what happened to you? I heard about the wedding crash on the local news, but—wait, are you okay?”
“I’m surviving, Marcus,” I said, taking a seat across from him and placing my leather portfolio on his desk. “I need your help. Not as a friend, but as a professional.”
Marcus’s demeanor shifted instantly from casual buddy to sharp investigator. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “Shoot.”
“I want everything you can dig up on Summer Hale’s return to Charleston three months ago. Her financial records, her rental lease, her communications, and specifically, her connection to Adrian Blackwood over the last twenty-four months while we were engaged.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “You think the wedding crash wasn’t an accident?”
“A rented black SUV jumps a curb directly into an outdoor wedding ceremony where the groom’s ex-fiancée just happens to be sitting near the aisle in a broken heel, crying for help, and gets carried away like a damsel in distress?” I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Charleston is full of bad drivers, Marcus, but that timing feels entirely too theatrical.”
Marcus whistled softly. “You think it was staged?”
“I want to know the truth. And I want proof of Adrian and Summer’s timeline. Every text, every dinner, every hotel receipt.”
“Consider it done,” Marcus said, pulling a blank notepad toward him. “Give me forty-eight hours. But Evelyn... be careful. If your husband is playing a deep game, people like that don’t like being exposed.”
“Let them try,” I said softly.
Leaving the office, my phone rang. It was my mother again, but before I could answer, a sleek black sedan pulled up beside the curb, hazard lights blinking. The rear window rolled down smoothly.
It wasn’t my mother. It was a woman with sharp silver-streaked hair and an impeccable beige trench coat.
Dr. Helena Cross.
“Get in, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said, her voice commanding yet calm.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then opened the door and slid into the leather interior beside her. The car immediately pulled away into the flow of traffic.
“Dr. Cross? What is this about?” I asked, eyeing her warily.
Dr. Cross didn’t look at me; she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Call me Helena. And to answer your question, Evelyn... I didn’t just happen to treat you at the hospital three days ago. I’ve been watching your husband and his little shadow for a very long time.”
My breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
May you like
Helena reached into her leather tote bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, dropping it heavily onto my lap.
“Because Summer Hale isn’t just an ex-girlfriend who came back to town,” Helena said coldly. “She’s my stepdaughter. And she and your husband are playing a very dangerous game with your life, your assets, and your sanity.”
