Chapter 47 – It wasn’t her!
***Alex***
Two police officers help me to stand up, their supportive hands contrasting sharply with the turmoil inside me. Their uniforms, crisp and authoritative, stand out against the backdrop of the chaotic scene unfolding at the edge of the forest. Curious onlookers gather around, their murmurs blending into a cacophony of speculation and gossip. Flashing cameras and microphones thrust toward me, wielded by journalists eager for a story to unravel before their eyes.
My heart pounds in my chest like a drumbeat of dread, each thud echoing the weight of the situation. The quest for revenge, once fueled by simmering anger, has now spiraled out of control, far beyond the boundaries of my intentions. I never wanted this outcome, never imagined it would come to this. All I had wanted was for her to despise me, to stir up a scene that would give me leverage in my clandestine plans.
But now, Harper lay dead.
"Mr. Montreal," the detective's voice pierces through the chaos, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. "What do you mean by 'she's my wife'? Did you get married again?"
"Yes, yesterday," I reply, my voice hollow with disbelief, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
"And how can you be so sure she's your wife if you didn't see her face?"
I gesture toward the items in the police officer's hands, my movements shaky as I approach. The ring, glinting faintly in the dim light, serves as a stark reminder of my grandmother's disapproval. She would never forgive me for this transgression.
"You'll have to confirm by looking at her face and giving us the certainty that it's her. By the way, we haven't checked yet, but is there any identification document in the small purse?"
I open the small white purse, its pristine exterior contrasting sharply with the chaos of the moment. Inside, the contents reveal a glimpse into Harper's life: a cell phone, a small wallet containing only the essentials, a few ten-dollar bills, and her ID.
"Harper Johnson, Mr. Leonard Johnson's niece?" the detective inquires, his tone probing for answers amidst the uncertainty that surrounds us.
I nod, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a heavy burden, threatening to crush me under its unbearable weight.
"But, as far as I remember, she has dark hair, right?"
Before I can respond, the detective signals to a firefighter to reveal the woman's face. As the sheet falls away, revealing a stranger with blonde hair, my heart sinks. This wasn't Harper.
"It's not her!" Relief washes over me, mingling with confusion and a gnawing sense of unease. "But why was this woman carrying my wife's belongings?"
"Mr. Montreal, why did you think it was your wife?" The detective's tone remains probing, searching for answers amidst the chaos that surrounds us.
"Ah," I hesitate, knowing I shouldn't say anything further without legal counsel, the weight of impending consequences bearing down on me. "We argued, and she didn't come home with me."
"And where is she now?" The detective's suspicion hangs heavy in the air, adding to the mounting tension of the moment.
"I'm going to call my lawyer," I reply, turning away from the officers and the barrage of flashing cameras from the paparazzi.
"Mr. Montreal, did you get married?"; "Sir, have you already had a fight?"; "Did she spend the night out of the house?" The questions from the journalists swirl around me, adding to the chaos of the moment as I struggle to make sense of the tangled web of events that have unfolded before me.
Before I could make the call, amidst the flashing lights that irritated my eyes, I see Harper crossing the street, her figure illuminated by the glow of the street lamps. Her clothes are disheveled, a sweatshirt hastily thrown over her dress, her hair tousled by the wind. Despite the weariness etched on her face, the sight of her alive fills me with an overwhelming sense of relief.
But relief quickly gives way to a surge of frustration. Why hadn't she called? How could she not have informed me of her whereabouts? Anger simmers beneath the surface, mingling with concern as I watch her approach.
"Harper!" I shout, the urgency in my voice drawing the attention of the curious bystanders nearby.
As Harper turns towards me, the sudden attention of the paparazzi and journalists descends upon her like a swarm of vultures. They converge upon her, their cameras flashing incessantly, their questions firing like bullets.
Instinctively, I step forward, using my imposing frame to shield her from the onslaught of intrusive lenses and probing microphones. The police officers, sensing the escalating chaos, quickly come to our aid, forming a protective barrier around us and ushering us away from the frenzied crowd.
But the relentless barrage of questions follows us like a shadow, each inquiry piercing through the air with relentless force. "Why did you marry Mr. Johnson's niece in secret?" "Isn't it scandalous to wed your ex-fiancée's cousin?"
The urge to silence them with a swift blow clench my fists, but I suppress the impulse, knowing that violence would only exacerbate the situation. Instead, I guide Harper towards my car, my grip firm yet gentle as I lead her away from the chaos.
She slides into the passenger seat with a forceful slam of the door, her frustration palpable. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the tense silence that hangs heavy between us as I start the engine and pull away from the scene.
The journey back to my house is fraught with tension, the silence punctuated only by the sound of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. Harper makes no attempt to break the silence, her eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside.
As we pull into the driveway, I turn off the engine and turn to face her, the weight of the unanswered questions pressing down upon us. She makes a move to exit the car, but I reach out and stop her, a silent plea for her to stay and face the truth together.
"Please, let me out of the car," she implores, her voice a mix of determination and exasperation.
"Where were you?" I demand, my impatience seeping through my words.
She scoffs incredulously. "Why do you even care? You dumped me on the side of the road in the pouring rain. Did you honestly expect me to stroll through a thunderstorm?"
I take a moment to collect myself, the weight of guilt pressing down on me. "Harper, I'm sorry for what happened yesterday. I never anticipated such a heavy downpour and the lightning. The gravity of my mistake hit me like a ton of bricks when I heard about the woman's death."
"Yeah, I saw it on the news. Can I just leave now?" Her tone remains unchanged, masking any underlying emotions.
"Why were your belongings found with the woman who died?" I press further, my curiosity and concern mingling in my voice.
Her complexion pales, and a flicker of fear dances in her eyes. "So the thief met her end?" Her tone shifts from annoyance to vulnerability.
"She robbed you?" I seek confirmation, my heart sinking at the thought.
"Yes. Right after you told me to get out of the car, she appeared out of nowhere. Threatened me with a knife and stripped me of everything I had! Where's my purse?"
"The police likely seized the belongings as evidence to solve her death. They should return them soon, or at least I hope so. My grandmother will..." I start to explain before she cuts me off with a sharp retort.
"Stop talking, Alex! A woman lost her life, I was in danger, and you're fretting over your grandmother's ring? How utterly clueless! Just open the damn door!"
"I'll unlock it, but you need to rest first. Then we'll have a discussion. The media won't let up until we address our supposed marriage," I concede, my mind reeling with the whirlwind of events.
"Why did you claim we were married? Damn it! We agreed to keep this under wraps!" Her frustration boils over as she lashes out.
"I panicked, okay? When I thought you were gone..." My voice trails off, unable to articulate the flood of emotions coursing through me.
She meets my gaze with intensity for a fleeting moment before attempting to open the door again. I relent, allowing her to exit the car. With determined strides, she marches into the house, refusing to look back.