Page 6
The morning air held that peculiar crispness unique to wealthy neighborhoods—where even the oxygen seemed filtered and purified.
A few residents power-walked along the sidewalks in coordinated athleisure wear, their breath coming out in little clouds of vapor, completely unaware of the FBI vehicle cruising past their pristine properties.
Rachel noted security cameras mounted discreetly on every third or fourth house, their glass eyes tracking movement with digital precision.
"Check it out," Novak said as they pulled up to the Whitman residence. "Dead ringer for the McCallister place from Home Alone."
The sound of their car doors closing echoed across the manicured lawn with a finality that made Rachel wince.
She'd done this hundreds of times—approached homes where tragedy had struck—but something about this place made every movement feel magnified.
Their footsteps crunched on salt-scattered pavers as they approached the house.
The front door stood ajar, propped open by a bronze doorstop shaped like a sleeping cat.
Inside, a uniformed officer leaned against the wall, looking about as engaged as a museum guard on a Sunday afternoon.
A slight weariness in his eyes suggested he'd been there since the initial call.
He gave their badges a perfunctory glance and waved them through without a word, his gaze already drifting back to middle distance.
Rachel felt it the moment she crossed the threshold—that suffocating weight of fresh grief.
She'd walked into hundreds of homes just like this over her career, where death had made an unexpected visit hours before.
The air always felt different, heavier, like gravity itself had increased.
But this time, there was no wailing, no dramatic displays of mourning.
Just quiet sniffles and hushed voices drifting from deeper in the house.
The controlled grief of the wealthy, Rachel thought, where even devastation wore a designer label.
It was a slightly cruel thought, but it was there, and all the same.
The foyer opened into a hallway that could have been lifted from an architectural digest. Crown molding traced the ceiling like delicate lace, and vintage sconces cast warm pools of light every few feet.
The hardwood floors gleamed with a fresh coat of wax, unmarred by the usual scuffs and scratches that indicated actual life was lived here.
A crystal vase on a console table held fresh-cut hydrangeas—probably delivered weekly by some high-end florist. Everything was perfect, curated, artificial.
But something felt off. Rachel realized what it was as they passed a lonely end table—no family photos adorned the walls or surfaces, save for a single wedding portrait.
The happy couple—presumably Thomas and Ellie Whitman—smiled out from behind spotless glass, a moment frozen in time that now felt like a cruel joke.
Thomas Whitman stood tall and confident in his tuxedo, one hand resting possessively on his bride's waist. The photographer had caught him mid-laugh, his head turned slightly toward Ellie.
She gazed up at him with unguarded adoration, her white dress catching the light like fresh snow.
The absence of other photos nagged at Rachel.
No vacation snapshots, no casual moments caught on camera.
Just this one perfectly staged reminder of happier times.
She filed the detail away, letting it settle alongside the other observations accumulating in her mind.
She assumed this meant one (or both) of the Whitmans worked far too often and too hard to make time for vacations.
They followed the murmur of voices to an expansive dining room that opened onto what appeared to be a professional-grade kitchen.
The space was dominated by a massive mahogany table that could have seated at least a dozen, its surface reflecting the light from a chandelier that probably cost more than Rachel's car.
Three women sat clustered around one end, their heads turning in unison as Rachel and Novak appeared in the doorway.
One of them clung to a mug of steaming coffee as if it were a life raft.
Two of the women could have been mirror images—same heart-shaped face, same amber-colored eyes, same graceful way of holding themselves.
Sisters, without question. The third woman was different in appearance but somehow matched their energy, as if years of friendship had gradually synchronized their movements.
They all turned their heads in the direction of their visitors at the same time.
"Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said, her voice seeming too loud in the hushed room. “I'm Special Agent Gift, and this is Special Agent Novak, with the FBI. We're looking for Ellie Whitman."
The younger of the pair, who were clearly sisters, raised her hand slightly.
"That's me." Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled as they gripped her coffee mug.
A diamond tennis bracelet caught the light as her hand shook, the gems throwing tiny rainbows across the table's polished surface.
"Can... can they stay?" She gestured to her companions.
"Of course," Rachel said softly. She, perhaps more than anyone, recognized the need for emotional anchors in moments like these.
"This is Ramona, my sister," Ellie said, "and Beth, my best friend since third grade.
" The women flanked Ellie like guardians, their bodies subtly angled toward her.
Rachel recognized the protective formation—they'd probably been up all night, holding Ellie while she cried, making sure she ate something, fielding phone calls from well-meaning relatives.
Their designer clothes were slightly rumpled, suggesting they'd slept in them if they'd slept at all.
"Please, sit," Ellie said, indicating the chairs across from them. The coffee cups before them were full but cold, untouched. A half-eaten croissant sat on a bone china plate, torn into tiny pieces but barely consumed.
Novak cleared his throat. "We've reviewed the police reports, but we may need to go over some things again. So I apologize if it seems like a lot of this is just a repeat…”
A flash of something—anger, pain, or both—crossed Ellie's face. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into her palm. "What kinds of things?” she asked. “The fact that someone killed Thomas, or that he was cheating on me?"
"Maybe both," Novak replied evenly, his tone professional but not unkind.
Rachel leaned forward slightly. "The reports indicate you weren't aware of the affair until last night."
"That's right." The laugh that came out of Ellie’s mouth was bitter, hollow, like wind through dead leaves.
"Nothing like finding out your husband was unfaithful the same moment you learn he's dead.
" Ramona placed a hand over her sister's, their fingers interlacing with practiced ease.
Rachel noticed their matching rings—probably childhood gifts from parents who had encouraged their close bond.
"The woman's name is Jill Satterfield," Rachel said, watching carefully for any sign of recognition. "Does that name mean anything to you?"
Ellie shook her head, a strand of honey-blonde hair falling across her face.
"Never heard it before the police showed up at 10:45 last night.
" Her voice cracked on the time as if the moment was permanently etched in her memory.
Beth reached over and rubbed small circles on Ellie's back, a gesture so natural it spoke of decades of shared comfort.
"Were you surprised?" Novak asked. "About the affair?"
"Not really." Ellie's fingers tightened around her sister's.
"He'd been... distant for months. I told myself it was work stress.
He was always going crazy with his work.
Sometimes fifteen hours days, seven days a week.
That was much easier to believe that..." She trailed off, her free hand moving to twist her wedding ring—a large diamond that caught the light like a tiny sword.
Rachel watched the subtle interplay between the three women.
Every time Ellie's voice wavered, one or both of them would touch her—a hand on her shoulder, a gentle bump of knees under the table.
They moved like a single organism, connected by years of shared secrets and unwavering support.
Rachel could almost see the invisible threads that bound them together, strengthened by countless sleepovers, wedding preparations, and late-night phone calls.
"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Thomas?" Rachel asked gently, noting how Beth's hand tightened on Ellie's shoulder at the question.
That same conflicted expression crossed Ellie's face—grief wrestling with rage.
"Take your pick. Thomas had no shortage of enemies.
" Her voice grew harder, taking on an edge that seemed to surprise even her.
"Mostly because of work. He did as he pleased without asking permission.
He got to where he was in his career by stepping over a lot of others. "
"Any specific names come to mind?"
"No... not right now." Ellie's grip on her anger slipped, and her bottom lip began to quiver.
Rachel recognized the reaction—sometimes anger was easier than facing the crushing reality of loss.
It gave you something to hold onto when everything else was spinning out of control.
Anger didn't leave you feeling quite so helpless, quite so alone.
Tears began rolling down Ellie's cheeks, cutting trails through her expensive makeup.
She brushed them away almost angrily, but they kept coming.
Ramona and Beth moved closer, forming a protective circle around their wounded friend.
Rachel noticed how they seemed to communicate without words, each knowing exactly what the other would do before they did it.
"I think that's enough for now," Ramona said quietly but firmly, her voice carrying the same cultured accent as her sister. "Maybe you could come back after Ellie's had some time to... to process everything?"
Rachel nodded and stood, recognizing when a door was being firmly but politely closed. "Of course. Thank you for your time." She handed Ellie her card, noting how the younger woman's hand shook as she took it. "Please call if you think of anything else."
As they walked back to their car, Rachel could feel the heaviness of the situation inside the house peeling off of her like a snakeskin.
Houses like that—perfect houses with their perfect lawns and empty pools—they were supposed to be fortresses against tragedy.
But death didn't care about property values or security systems. It slipped in any way, leaving behind nothing but coffee gone cold and sisters holding hands across polished mahogany tables.
The winter sun had risen higher, making the neighborhood look even more like a movie set. A woman walking a pure-bred golden retriever crossed to the other side of the street as they approached their vehicle, her designer sneakers silent on the spotless sidewalk.
"We should look into Diana Foxworth next," Rachel said as they pulled away from the curb, watching the Whitman house recede in the side mirror. "See if we can establish any connection before we talk to Jill Satterfield."
Novak nodded, but Rachel barely registered his response.
Her mind was still in that dining room, watching three women bound by blood and history face the unthinkable together.
It was a reminder of why she did this job—not just to catch killers, but to give answers to the people left behind in death's wake.
People like Ellie Whitman, who would never look at her wedding photo the same way again.