Chapter 2 - The Mother-in-Law’s Alibi
The morning sun cast harsh gray beams across the linoleum floor of St. Mary Care Center’s third-floor recovery wing. I pushed open the door to Alistair’s private room without knocking.
Alistair was propped up against a stack of pillows, looking decidedly less fragile than he had the night before. A plastic pitcher of water sat on the bedside table, and the television hummed softly with morning news.
Martha Finch sat in the vinyl armchair by the window, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically in her lap. When she saw me step into the room, her needles stopped mid-stitch. Her expression hardened instantly from maternal concern to defensive hostility.
“You shouldn't be here, Jacqueline,” Martha said, not bothering to offer a greeting. “Alistair needs rest, not your cold, calculating interrogations.”
I ignored her, walking smoothly to the foot of the bed and resting my hands on the metal guardrail. Alistair swallowed hard, his eyes darting anxiously between his mother and me.
“Good morning, darling,” I said, letting a sweet, poisonous sarcasm coat the word. “How’s the head?”
“It throbs,” Alistair muttered, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat. “Jacqueline... look, about last night. The hospital is chaotic, and people get confused. Paige was just... she’s a colleague’s widow. I was helping her out. The boy calls me Daddy because he has developmental delays and latches onto male figures—”
I held up a single finger, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sheer audacity of his lie was almost impressive.
“A colleague’s widow,” I repeated softly. “That’s your story? Paige Miller, former assistant at a marketing firm, whose Wayzata townhouse is managed by a blind trust tied directly to your father’s corporate accounts?”
Alistair’s face drained of every remaining trace of color. The heart monitor beside the bed ticked upward, a sharp, erratic beeping-beep filling the silence.
Martha jumped up from her chair, her knitting basket clattering to the floor. “How dare you come in here and harass a recovering man with your paranoid delusions! You’ve always been obsessed with control, Jacqueline—probing into things that don’t concern you!”
“It concerns me when my husband commits bigamy on a corporate budget, Martha,” I snapped, turning my gaze fully onto my mother-in-law. The submissive, polite daughter-in-law who used to sit quietly at their Sunday dinners was gone. “And it certainly concerns me when your husband funnels marital and corporate assets into a secondary household while pretending your knees hurt too much to visit me.”
Martha’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked like she had been slapped.
Alistair pressed his hands against his bandages, groaning. “Jacqueline, please. Stop. Just... stop. My head is splitting. Let’s talk about this when I get home.”
“You aren't coming home, Alistair,” I said, pulling a folded document from my leather briefcase and placing it squarely on his hospital tray table.
He stared down at the paper. Bold letters stared back at him: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE AND EMERGENCY TEMPORARY RESTRAINING ORDER RE: MARITAL AND CORPORATE ASSETS.
“What is this?” he whispered, horror dawning in his eyes.
“That is the beginning of the end of your career,” I replied, turning toward the door. “And by the time you check out of this hospital, the Hennepin County Sheriff’s office will have already frozen every corporate account, personal credit line, and hidden trust associated with your name.”
“You can’t do that!” Martha shrieked, lunging toward me. “You’ll ruin him! He has a multi-million-dollar funding round closing next week!”
I paused at the doorway, looking back over my shoulder with a cold, professional smile.
May you like
“I know,” I said. “And I’m the one holding the pen.”
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