Chapter 2 - The House That Had Already Changed Its Locks
The next morning, the hospital room smelled of antiseptic and coffee. I had not slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
A doctor explained that my injuries needed monitoring and that I should report any change immediately. She did not promise that everything would be fine. I was grateful she respected me enough not to lie.
Patrice sat at the window reviewing the police incident number.
"The pilot's name is Andre Wilkes," she said. "He told investigators Darius opened the door and pushed you. He also says somebody changed the passenger manifest after the flight."
"Who?"
"He's not certain. The operator is preserving records."
I had known Andre for exactly fifteen minutes before the flight. He was a Black man in his fifties with a careful voice and a faded wedding ring. He had insisted on a briefing while Darius rolled his eyes.
I remembered Andre saying, "The door stays secured during flight unless an approved procedure requires otherwise."
Darius had laughed. "Relax, man. I've done this before."
At the time, I thought he meant he'd flown in helicopters.
Now I wondered what else he meant.
Patrice showed me the documents we'd prepared three months earlier. My father, a machinist who built a medical-device company from a rented garage, had left me controlling shares in Ellison Biomedical. I had expanded it into a national business. Darius, who called himself an entrepreneur, had never built anything he couldn't bill to my accounts.
When I became pregnant, his questions changed.
"What happens to your shares if something happens to you?"
"Wouldn't it make sense to put me in charge while you're on maternity leave?"
"Why does Patrice get to know more about our money than your husband?"
I had moved my voting shares into a carefully drafted structure and named an independent fiduciary to protect our child's interests. Darius was not automatically entitled to control the company if I died. I had also begun documenting suspicious transactions.
"Do you think he found out?" I asked.
Patrice looked at me.
"He found out something. We need evidence before deciding what."
My mother called from Atlanta. Her name was Lorraine Ellison, and she had worked night shifts for years while my father grew the business.
"I am getting on a plane," she said.
"Mom, I'm safe."
"Baby, safe people don't sound like they're trying not to cry."
I broke down.
"He's telling everybody I jumped."
"Then let him talk. You stay alive."
Lorraine arrived that evening wearing a red wool coat and carrying a plastic container of homemade sweet potato pie. She placed it on the hospital table and took my face in both hands.
"I used to braid your hair before school," she said. "You'd complain I pulled too hard. Remember?"
I nodded.
"I need you to complain about something again, Simone. Anything."
"I hate this hospital pudding."
"Good. That's my girl."
She sat with me through the night.
Across town, Darius was already moving into the role of grieving widower. Patrice obtained photographs from the public memorial planning page. The white flowers were being arranged around my portrait. A gold-framed sign called me THE HEART OF ELLISON BIOMEDICAL.
Tasha had posted a tribute: Simone was like a sister to me. I will help protect everything she loved.
"She knows," I said.
Patrice didn't answer.
"She knows I'm alive?"
"We don't have proof."
"She's wearing my earrings."
"That's proof she has your earrings. We'll establish the rest."
The distinction infuriated me, then steadied me. Patrice had spent twenty years refusing to confuse suspicion with evidence. I needed that now.
The police arranged a recorded interview. I described the flight, Darius's words, his grip on my wrist, the open door, and the kiss. I did not try to sound brave. I cried twice and asked for a break.
When I finished, Detective Marcus Reed said, "We'll seek the aircraft footage, communications, and any records relevant to the flight. Please don't contact him yourself."
I agreed.
Then the hospital social worker helped me arrange a safe place to stay after discharge. I would not return to the mansion while Darius had access.
I thought that meant leaving behind a house.
At midnight, Patrice received a property alert.
Someone had filed paperwork claiming Darius was authorized to manage my residence because I was deceased.
May you like
The filing included a death certificate.
It had been issued before the rescue boat brought me ashore.
