Chapter 5 - The Night Bellweather Buried Us
The candlelight vigil began at seven.
By seven-fifteen, more than three hundred people had gathered outside the First Community Church of Bellweather.
I knew because I watched them arrive on a television in a hospital conference room.
There were teachers from Ivy's school.
Neighbors.
Preston's employees.
Women from the charity committee I had volunteered with for six years.
People brought flowers and stuffed animals.
Someone had printed an enormous photograph of Ivy wearing her yellow raincoat.
In the photograph, she was laughing.
I remembered taking it.
It had been raining that afternoon, and she'd insisted on jumping in every puddle between our front porch and the driveway.
Now that photograph stood beside a row of candles, beneath a sign that read:
Bring Meredith and Ivy Home.
I covered my mouth.
They were asking for something I wanted more than anything.
But they didn't know I was watching.
They didn't know the woman they were mourning was sitting less than seventy miles away with her daughter sleeping in a nearby room.
And they didn't know the man standing in front of them had tried to murder us.
Preston stepped onto the church's front steps at seven twenty-three.
He wore a black coat.
His wedding ring gleamed beneath the floodlights.
Celeste stood several feet behind him.
When he approached the microphone, the crowd grew silent.
"I don't know how to thank everyone," he began.
His voice sounded broken.
"My wife was the heart of our family."
I closed my eyes.
He continued.
"Meredith believed in kindness. She believed in second chances. And our little Ivy..."
He stopped.
A woman in the crowd began crying.
Preston lowered his head.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, "I would give everything I own to hold my little girl again."
Hannah made a sound beside me.
I looked over.
Her face was hard with anger.
"He's using her," she whispered.
I nodded.
On the screen, Preston took a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
"I wanted to read something Ivy wrote for a school assignment."
My stomach dropped.
I recognized the paper.
Ivy had written about the person she admired most.
She'd chosen her father.
I'd helped her spell the word generous.
Preston unfolded it.
"My daddy is my hero because he helps people and always makes me feel safe."
I made a strangled sound.
Hannah reached for the remote.
"No," I whispered.
"Meredith—"
"Leave it."
I needed to see.
Not because I wanted more pain.
Because for the first time, I understood exactly how Preston manipulated people.
He didn't merely tell lies.
He borrowed the truth from innocent people and used it to make his lies believable.
The words Ivy had written were real.
Her love had been real.
That was what made it unbearable.
Preston wiped his eyes.
"If I could speak to my daughter one more time, I'd tell her how proud I am to be her father."
I stood so suddenly my chair scraped against the floor.
"Turn it off."
Hannah did.
The room fell silent.
I walked to the window.
Outside, rain moved across the parking lot.
I stared at the wet pavement and tried to stop shaking.
"He doesn't get to do that," I whispered.
Hannah came beside me.
"We're going to stop him."
"He stood in front of her teachers."
"I know."
"He read her schoolwork."
"I know."
"He turned the whole town into witnesses for his defense."
Hannah was quiet.
Then she said, "Maybe."
I turned.
"What?"
"Maybe people will remember every word he said when they find out the truth."
That was the first moment I considered how devastating the truth might become.
Not only for Preston.
For everyone who believed him.
The community that had celebrated our marriage.
The employees who had trusted his promises.
The teachers who had watched Ivy grow up.
They would have to face the realization that the charming man they admired had been capable of throwing an eight-year-old into the ocean.
And I would have to live in a town where every face reminded me of what people had believed.
I sat down.
"Do you think they'll blame me?"
Hannah looked startled.
"For what?"
"For not seeing it sooner."
She took my hand.
"Some people always look for someone easier to blame than the person who committed the crime."
I stared at her.
"Will you?"
Her eyes filled.
"Never."
A knock interrupted us.
Detective Kline entered with Marcus Bell and a younger investigator carrying a laptop.
"We have something," Kline said.
I stood.
"The yacht?"
She nodded.
"The backup recorder."
They connected the laptop to the conference room monitor.
A digital chart appeared.
White lines crossed dark-blue water.
The route of the Silver Meridian stretched out from Bellweather Harbor toward the open Atlantic.
Bell pointed to a marker.
"This is where the vessel departed the marina."
Another marker appeared.
"Here is where the yacht passed the outer harbor buoy."
The route continued east.
Forty miles from shore.
Then the line slowed.
Bell pointed to a cluster of closely spaced coordinates.
"At approximately eight fifty-six, the vessel reduced speed significantly."
I felt my heartbeat change.
That was when Preston had asked us to come onto the deck.
The chart showed the yacht holding its position for several minutes.
Then its speed increased sharply.
Bell enlarged the image.
"The vessel accelerated away from that position at nine-oh-four."
My mouth went dry.
I remembered the engines roaring.
The white wake.
The disappearing lights.
Kline looked at me.
"Does that approximate the time you were in the water?"
"Yes."
Bell continued.
"The operating data also shows a manually canceled alarm from the stern access system."
I looked at him.
"What does that mean?"
"Your husband's yacht has a safety system that registers when certain exterior access equipment is deployed. It's not definitive evidence of what happened to you. But it helps reconstruct the sequence."
He pulled up another record.
"At nine-oh-five, the system registered a manual acknowledgment of the alarm."
I stared at the timestamp.
Nine-oh-five.
One minute after Preston accelerated away.
Kline said, "The incident report he gave police says he remained in the area searching for you for nearly an hour."
My eyes filled.
"He didn't."
"We can see the vessel traveling toward shore immediately afterward."
Bell opened another screen.
"And the first recorded marine distress call associated with your husband's account came considerably later."
"How much later?"
"More than an hour after the recorded departure from that position."
I looked at the chart.
That one white line told the truth Preston had tried to bury.
He hadn't stayed.
He hadn't searched.
He hadn't tried to save us.
He had gone home.
But the next piece of evidence shocked me even more.
Bell opened a maintenance log.
"We checked the yacht's service records."
He highlighted an entry.
"Tuesday night. Two days before the incident."
I remembered the anonymous message.
Ask Celeste who was on the boat Tuesday night.
Bell continued.
"Someone accessed the stern ladder assembly and the alarm wiring."
"Who?"
"We've identified a marine contractor who performed some work that evening. We're interviewing him."
I leaned closer.
"Was Celeste there?"
Kline glanced at her notes.
"Marina security footage confirms Celeste Wynn entered the dock area that night."
My stomach tightened.
"With Preston?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else?"
Kline paused.
"Victor Sloane."
The private investigator.
The man asking about Hannah.
I felt cold.
"Why would Preston bring a private investigator aboard his yacht two days before trying to kill us?"
Kline looked at Bell.
"That's what we intend to find out."
At that moment, Hannah's phone vibrated again.
Another message from the unknown number.
This time there was no photograph.
Only a sentence.
Does Meredith want the whole town to know what she hid in the jacket?
Hannah showed Kline immediately.
The detective read it.
Then she asked, "Have you replied to any of these messages?"
"No."
"Good. Don't."
The younger investigator began photographing the screen.
I looked at Hannah.
"Whoever sent it knows about the jacket."
"Yes."
"And they're trying to make us respond."
Kline nodded.
"That's one possibility."
"What are the others?"
"They may want you frightened enough to reveal where the evidence is being held."
I thought back to my sewing room.
The security cameras.
Preston's claim that he knew about Grace.
And suddenly another memory surfaced.
Three weeks earlier, Preston had installed a new camera above the garage.
He'd told me it was for security.
But it faced the side entrance to the house.
The entrance beside my sewing room.
I looked at Kline.
"There's a camera Preston installed near the room where I altered the jacket."
She studied me.
"Could it see inside?"
"I don't know."
"Did your husband have access to its recordings?"
"Yes."
Kline turned to the younger investigator.
"Add the residential surveillance system to the warrant request."
I felt sick.
For weeks, I'd believed the jacket was my one secret.
But Preston might have known I was hiding something even before we boarded.
He hadn't checked the lining because he was certain the Atlantic would destroy everything.
He had underestimated the emergency equipment.
And he had underestimated me.
That evening, investigators went to Preston's house with warrants authorizing searches of specific records and devices.
But Preston was no longer there.
According to his housekeeper, he'd returned briefly after the vigil and left carrying a black overnight bag.
His driver hadn't taken him.
His personal phone was turned off.
His attorney claimed not to know where he was.
By midnight, detectives had expanded their search.
Shortly afterward, Celeste Wynn appeared at the police station accompanied by an attorney.
She refused to answer most questions.
But she made one statement before ending the interview.
"I didn't know he would actually do it."
Detective Kline asked what she meant.
Celeste began crying.
Her attorney ended the conversation.
I heard about it the next morning.
Hannah sat beside my hospital bed as she explained.
"Preston has disappeared."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"The police haven't located him."
"Then he knows."
Hannah hesitated.
"They believe he may know you're alive."
My hands went cold.
"How?"
"Someone warned him the investigation was moving toward him."
I looked at the door.
"Does he know where we are?"
"There's no evidence of that."
But I knew Preston.
He hated losing.
He hated being embarrassed.
And most of all, he hated anyone taking something he considered his.
I looked toward Ivy's room.
"Then we need to move."
Hannah nodded.
"Detective Kline agrees."
A protective relocation was being arranged.
We would leave the hospital through a restricted entrance.
Only a small number of people would know our destination.
I thought that would be the end of the night's surprises.
I was wrong.
At eleven-thirty, Detective Kline returned.
She looked exhausted.
"Meredith, I need to show you something."
She placed a photograph on the table.
A black SUV.
Parked beside the rear service entrance of the hospital.
"Do you recognize this vehicle?"
I stared at it.
Then my breath caught.
"That's Victor Sloane's car."
Kline nodded.
"It was seen near the hospital shortly after the vigil."
I looked up.
"Was he looking for us?"
"We're investigating."
She hesitated.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"We recovered a discarded prepaid phone from a parking lot near the marina."
I leaned forward.
"Whose?"
"We haven't established ownership. But its message history includes communications to Hannah's number."
The anonymous warnings.
The photographs.
The questions about the jacket.
I stared at her.
"Was it Sloane?"
Kline didn't answer directly.
"We're pursuing that connection."
My mind began moving faster than my fear.
If Sloane had been aboard the yacht Tuesday night, he knew something about the murder plan.
If he was following Hannah, he was looking for evidence.
And if he had been outside the hospital, he might already know we survived.
I looked at Detective Kline.
"Find the company that paid him."
She frowned.
"What?"
"Victor doesn't work for free. Preston hires him through corporate accounts. Check which company paid him this week."
Kline nodded.
"We're tracing the financial relationships."
I closed my eyes.
I knew exactly where to look.
Northstar Maritime Holdings.
The shell company that had purchased the yacht.
The company that had received $2.4 million from Preston's failing business.
The company that could be funding everything.
I looked up.
May you like
"I think I can help you find Preston."
And for the first time since the yacht disappeared into the darkness, I saw something on Detective Kline's face that looked like hope.
