Chapter 9 - The Fiancée Who Finally Spoke
The retired insurance investigator's name was Walter Price. He arrived at the diner ten minutes early, placed his hat beside his coffee, and asked Sloan and June one question before he agreed to speak.
“Are you recording this?”
June pointed to the device on the table. “With your consent.”
Walter nodded. “Then let the record show that I tried to stop the payment.”
He had investigated the storm claim at North Gate Nine. Contractors said the flood had been caused by an uncontrollable weather event. Walter's photographs showed something else: new barriers stacked across the runoff channel before the rain began. The photographs had been omitted from the insurer's final file.
“I reported it,” he said. “My supervisor ordered me to close the case. Three months later, I was reassigned. My pension depended on keeping my mouth shut.”
“Do you still have the photographs?” Sloan asked.
“I have the negatives and the field notes. I've kept them all these years because I couldn't bear throwing away proof.”
Walter described the part he'd never put in a report: arriving on the flooded block and seeing a grandmother holding a soaked family Bible above her head. Her porch steps were underwater; a contractor across the street was photographing damage for an insurance form. Walter had asked why temporary barriers were still across the channel after the rain. The contractor had said those barriers were above his pay grade.
“I took pictures because I wanted someone to answer that question,” Walter said. “Then I spent thirteen years hoping somebody would.”
Sloan took the retired man's hand briefly. “Thank you for keeping them.”
“Don't thank me yet. Make sure the truth reaches those families.”
He gave the location of his records to Miriam by phone, after Sloan secured his permission. He would not simply surrender originals to strangers; he wanted an attorney and a proper transfer record. Sloan appreciated the caution. Reckless shortcuts were exactly what Preston would exploit.
When she reached Evelyn's house, Celeste Vale was waiting in a parked car down the street. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses despite the clouds.
“Can we talk?” Celeste asked through the open window.
Sloan looked toward Dante, who had driven her. He waited at the corner, leaving her room to decide.
“June is coming,” Sloan said. “And we'll sit on Evelyn's porch where the camera can see us.”
Celeste nodded as though she had expected the condition.
Twenty minutes later, Celeste sat with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea. June kept her notebook open but did not switch on her recorder until Celeste agreed.
“I thought being engaged to Preston meant I was safe from people like him,” Celeste said. “At first he was attentive. He remembered everything I liked. Then he started checking my phone, deciding which friends were disloyal, telling me my father's investment was the only thing that mattered.”
Sloan recognized the pattern with a sick familiarity. Preston had always made control sound like devotion.
“I was the one who left the note in your locker that night,” Celeste added, her voice dropping. “I asked a server to deliver it after Preston stormed out. I'd overheard him telling Sarto that Thomas had better keep quiet about the blue line. I didn't understand what it meant. I was afraid to do more.”
Sloan stared at her. The six words that had changed everything had come from the same woman who'd watched her on the floor. It was not an absolution, but it was a truth Sloan could finally put in its place.
“He keeps a secondary ledger,” Celeste continued. “Money from the insurance claim, payments to Bell, transfers to companies connected with Sarto. I saw the spreadsheet on his laptop.”
“Do you have it?” June asked.
“No. He changed the password when I questioned him. But I have messages he sent me asking me to get Thomas Mercer's medical information. I refused.”
Celeste took her phone from her purse and showed them the messages. They were blunt and ugly. Get the file. Stop pretending you've developed a conscience.
Miriam joined by video call. She advised Celeste to preserve her phone and messages, not attempt unauthorized access to Preston's devices, and seek her own lawyer immediately. Celeste listened, visibly relieved to hear a plan that did not require her to become a spy.
“Why come to me?” Sloan asked.
Celeste looked down. “Because I sat there while he made you kneel. I laughed at a joke afterward, even though I wanted to be sick. I can't pretend I was innocent.”
Sloan remembered Celeste's red gown, her perfect hair, the silence that had felt like agreement.
“You weren't kind to me,” she said. “I'm not going to lie about that.”
“I know.”
“But you can still do the right thing now.”
Celeste covered her mouth and began to cry. Sloan didn't hug her. Forgiveness wasn't a performance, and they weren't friends. She simply moved the tissues closer.
That evening, a local paper published June's preliminary investigation into the flood insurance claim. The article quoted residents, identified the suspicious differences between survey versions, and noted that authorities had been asked to review related financial records. It did not name Celeste.
Preston's attorneys responded with threatened defamation litigation. His publicist accused Roman of using his influence to destroy a rival. Within an hour, an investor representative canceled a scheduled meeting with Roman, citing reputational concerns.
Sloan found him in his office staring at the cancellation notice.
“You warned me there could be consequences,” she said.
“I warned you about my problems. I don't regret standing beside you.”
“But I'm costing you—”
He interrupted gently. “Don't finish that sentence. The people paying for this scheme are the families whose basements fill with sewage. If my balance sheet finally notices, perhaps it should.”
Sloan felt her throat tighten. Preston had measured love in what she could provide. Roman had just described doing the right thing as a cost he was willing to bear.
He came around the desk and stopped a careful distance away.
“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She placed hers in it.
For a few seconds they stood quietly, neither of them pretending the closeness was part of a public role. When he leaned nearer, she didn't step away. Their first kiss was brief, hesitant, and entirely unobserved.
Her phone vibrated against the desk.
The caller ID displayed her father's care facility.
“Sloan,” the night nurse said, breathless. “Someone came with an authorization to move your father. The papers looked official, but the signature wasn't yours. We stopped the transfer. You need to come.”
Sloan's hand went cold.
May you like
The man she'd loved once was no longer merely threatening her reputation.
He was reaching for the one person she couldn't afford to lose.
