Page 73 of Laced With Secrets

“I received an invitation.” Her gaze drifted toward the memorial display across the room, toward Thomas’ photographs. “From the Historical Society. They sent them to everyone who was involved with the preservation project back in 1973, or their surviving family members. I almost threw it away.”

“But you didn’t,” I said carefully.

“No.” Her voice dropped, soft against the ambient chatter in the room. “I’ve refused to speak with Sheriff Hawkins. My lawyers have been very insistent. My children—” she paused, something bitter crossing her face, “—they said cooperating opens us to liability, even after all these years. As if anything that happened in 1973 could touch us now.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hands twisting together in her lap.

“My doctor gave me six months, perhaps less... that was over a year ago.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. “When that invitation arrived, when I read the program and saw Thomas’ name…”

Her voice cracked slightly.

“Well, my lawyers and my children can’t stop me from attending a memorial service, can they?”

The aide shifted uncomfortably, clearly uncertain whether to intervene.

“You’re expecting,” Constance said, her gaze dropping to my belly.

I nodded, my hand moving instinctively to the small swell.

“I knew he was too,” she whispered. “Or rather, I suspected it—even went to his doctor and confronted one of the nurses, demanded to know if he was pregnant. I was certain he was carrying my husband’s child, you see. Certain they were having an affair.”

She took a shaky breath, her whole body trembling. “It was May. A Historical Society fundraiser in the garden behind the courthouse. Thomas approached me when I was alone, away from the crowd. He said he’d discovered something terrible in the preservation project finances. That he’d tried to talk to my husband—to the judge—but Harold kept putting him off, making excuses.”

She paused, her fingers clenching white against her wheelchair. “He said he needed help. Needed someone with influence to listen, to do something. And I…” Her voice broke. “I laughed at him. I told him he had nerve approaching me, given that he’d been having an affair with my husband. I told him I knew about the baby. That I knew what he was.”

She couldn’t continue for a moment, shame and anguish warring across her features. “I said if he didn’t stop pursuing my husband, if he didn’t leave Millcrest entirely, I’d make sureeveryone knew exactly what kind of person he was. That I’d destroy his career, his reputation, everything. I’d make sure no one would hire him, that the baby would be born into shame and scandal.”

My stomach turned. The cruelty of it—threatening not just Thomas but his unborn child, using his pregnancy as a weapon against him when he was already so vulnerable.

My inner omega instinctively recoiled—not just from the cruelty, but from the wrongness of it. Every omega understood the vulnerability of pregnancy, the desperate need for protection and support during that time. To weaponize that vulnerability against someone…

I suppressed the sudden primal urge to extricate myself from this situation and go locate my alpha.

I felt a distant pulse of concern through the bond—Dominic had noticed my distress from wherever he was taking his call. I tried to project reassurance, to calm him so he wouldn’t feel the need to come flying to my defense from whatever imagined scenario he was probably concocting.

“But he wasn’t having an affair with your husband,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.

“No.” Constance said, shaking her head. “I learned that later, after Harold died and I found papers in his safe deposit box. Evidence Thomas had given him about the financial crimes. He was trying to convince my husband to help expose corruption. He was trying to do the right thing.”

She looked at me. “And I threatened him. What kind of person does that?”

The aide stepped forward, alarm clear on her face now. “Mrs. Whitmore, perhaps we should?—”

“In a moment, Sandra.” Constance waved her off with a weak gesture, her attention fixed on me. “I need to say this. I’ve needed to say it for a long time now.”

“Did you kill him?” The question came out before I could stop it, too blunt, too direct. But I needed to know.

“No.” Constance’s answer was immediate and sincere. “I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. I was cruel to him, I threatened him, I failed him when he asked for my help. But I didn’t take his life.”

I studied her face, analyzing every micro-expression, every shift in her weathered features. She believed what she was saying—I was certain of that. But belief and truth weren’t always the same thing.

“Your husband,” I said carefully. “Judge Whitmore. Could he have?—”

“Harold was many things, most of them not good.” Constance’s voice carried decades of bitter analysis. “He was a drunk, a philanderer, compromised by corruption and weakness. But he was also a coward.” She met my eyes. “Violence requires a kind of courage, even terrible courage. The courage to act, to make an irrevocable choice. Harold didn’t have that. He liked power, yes… I think that’s why he became a judge, but he preferred to look away, to pretend problems didn’t exist if acknowledging them required action.”

Constance was quiet for a long moment, her eyes clouding with distant memories as the lines around her mouth deepened.

“Mrs. Whitmore—” I started, but she cut me off.