Chapter 8 - The Women in the Car
Isabelle did not cry when Samuel said her mother died with Daniel.
She laughed.
A short, disbelieving sound.
“You’re confused,” she said. “My mother, Evelyn Laurent, died off the coast of Maine.”
Samuel looked at her with sorrow.
“That was the public story.”
“No.”
“She was in Connecticut on November 4, 2009.”
“No.”
“She was with Daniel.”
Isabelle grabbed the back of a chair.
“You’re lying.”
“I handled the settlement.”
“What settlement?”
Samuel closed the office door.
The remaining guests had been allowed to leave after giving statements, but Victor stayed with Isabelle.
Dr. Crowe stayed with me.
Samuel opened a digital archive on his laptop.
The first photograph showed Daniel standing beside a dark sedan outside a private clinic.
Beside him was a blonde woman in a white coat.
Isabelle leaned closer.
Her breathing stopped.
“That’s my mother.”
The second photograph showed them entering the clinic together.
The timestamp was one week before the crash.
“What were they doing there?” I asked.
Samuel’s answer came slowly.
“Your father believed Daniel had secretly married Evelyn.”
Isabelle shook her head.
“My mother was married to my father.”
“Not legally,” Samuel said.
She stared at him.
“Your parents’ marriage certificate was forged.”
Victor placed a hand on her shoulder.
She pulled away.
I understood the instinct.
When the people closest to you become part of the lie, comfort feels like another trap.
Samuel continued.
“Daniel and Evelyn were developing a medical research company together. They intended to expose illegal embryo trafficking involving wealthy families.”
Bell.
The stored genetic samples.
The embryo inside Isabelle.
Pieces began moving toward one another.
“Was Marcus Bell involved?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He ran the clinic.”
Isabelle touched her stomach.
“He used my mother’s research?”
Samuel looked at the laboratory report.
“Possibly.”
“Why would she enter a car with Daniel the night they died?”
“They were going to meet a federal investigator.”
“Did they crash?”
Samuel looked down.
“The official report says Daniel lost control in the storm.”
“That isn’t what you believe.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He enlarged a photograph of the wrecked vehicle.
“The brake line had been cut.”
The room went silent.
I thought of Hunter’s question.
Who was driving Daniel’s car?
“Who was behind the wheel?” I asked.
Samuel’s mouth tightened.
“Evelyn.”
Isabelle closed her eyes.
“Then Daniel was the passenger.”
“Yes.”
“Why did Hunter know?”
Samuel looked toward the elevator.
“That is what I cannot explain.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number appeared.
YOU REMOVED YOUR HUSBAND FROM THE PENTHOUSE. SMART.
A second message followed.
NOW CHECK THE WINE BOTTLE HE BROUGHT HOME.
I looked toward the dining table.
The bottle from Hunter’s toast remained beside the overturned glasses.
Samuel stopped me.
“Don’t touch it.”
The security guard photographed the bottle and lifted it with gloves.
The label was from our wedding year.
Hunter had told me he bought it from a private collector.
The guard examined the cork.
“There’s a puncture mark.”
Dr. Crowe’s expression sharpened.
“It may have been injected.”
I remembered Hunter pouring my glass.
I had not drunk from it because of the phone call.
Isabelle had.
She looked down at her stomach.
“What was in it?”
Samuel called emergency services.
Within minutes, paramedics were testing Isabelle’s blood.
She sat on the sofa trembling while Victor held her hand.
The rapid screen detected a sedative.
Not enough to kill her.
Enough to cause confusion, memory loss, and possibly complications with pregnancy.
Hunter had expected me to drink it.
The incompetency petition.
The false medication records.
The psychiatric transport.
He planned to drug me at dinner, then use my behavior as proof that I was unstable.
Isabelle stared at the wine bottle.
“He knew I might drink from that glass.”
“He didn’t care,” I said.
Her eyes filled.
For the first time, I saw something in her other than manipulation.
Recognition.
She had believed she was his partner.
Now she understood she had always been evidence he could discard.
My phone vibrated again.
A photograph appeared.
Hunter stood in the underground parking garage beside Bell.
The timestamp was six months earlier.
Hunter had lied.
He knew Bell long before tonight.
Beneath the photograph were seven words.
HUNTER DIDN’T PLAN THIS. HE INHERITED IT.
Then a final image loaded.
May you like
It showed my father, Hunter’s father, and Marcus Bell standing together outside the fertility clinic in 2009.
👉 Hunter’s betrayal had begun before he ever met Kylie, and the photograph of their fathers proved the marriage itself may have been arranged as part of a seventeen-year plan.
