The article described a tragic fall during a romantic winter retreat. Victor Hale, devastated husband. Elena Hale, beloved philanthropist. Their unborn child, also presumed lost.
Presumed.
My eyes moved down the screen.
Victor had released a statement.
My wife was my heart. Our son was our future. I ask for privacy as I grieve this unimaginable loss.
My throat closed.
My wife was my heart.
He had pushed his heart off a mountain.
I scrolled further before Marianne could stop me.
There was another photograph.
Victor outside our Denver home, wearing a black coat, eyes red, face drawn. Serena stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder. Her expression was solemn, almost sisterly.
Almost.
“Who told the press Serena was there?” I asked.
“No one,” Adrian said. “She presented herself as a family friend.”
A family friend.
I stared at her hand on his shoulder.
My stomach tightened, and one of the monitors shifted its rhythm.
