Chapter 5: The Woman Who Saw Everything
I read the message twice.
Then I showed it to Ellen.
She read it.
Set the phone down.
Picked up her tea.
"Call her," Ellen said.
Patricia Holt answered on the second ring.
Her voice was careful, like someone who had been thinking about what she wanted to say for several days.
"Mr.
Whitaker.
Thank you for calling back."
"Thank you for reaching out.
Can you tell me what you saw?"
"I was in the corridor restocking the suite when Mrs.
Whitaker — your wife — came in.
She sat down on the bench near the window.
She looked tired, but fine.
A few minutes later, the bride came in.
The groom was just behind her."
"Go on."
"The bride was already angry when she walked in.
I could hear her before she came through the door.
She was saying something about photographs.
About the album." A pause.
"She told your wife she wasn't supposed to be in the formal portraits.
Your wife said she disagreed.
And then—" Patricia stopped.
"I should have stepped forward.
I've thought about that every day since."
"You're stepping forward now.
What did you see?"
"The bride sl@pped her.
Open hand, across the face.
And then the groom — your son — he grabbed Mrs.
Whitaker's arm.
Hard.
She tried to pull back and he pushed her.
She went into the wall and then down." A breath.
"I was behind the partition.
I froze.
By the time I moved, they were already walking away.
Your wife was on the floor.
I went to help her."
I looked at Ellen across the kitchen.
She was watching me.
"You helped her up?"
"I did.
I got her some water.
She asked me not to say anything.
She said she didn't want to ruin the wedding." Patricia's voice tightened.
"I should have said something anyway.
I've worked events for nineteen years and I have never seen anything like that."
"You said you weren't the only one who saw it."
"The photographer's assistant was at the far end of the corridor.
He was checking equipment.
I don't know if he saw all of it, but he was there.
His name is Daniel Marsh.
He works freelance — I can get you the agency's contact if you want it."
"Please."
She gave me the number.
I wrote it down.
"Mrs.
Holt," I said.
"Would you be willing to put what you saw in writing?
A signed statement."
A pause.
Not long.
"Yes," she said.
"I would.
Your wife was kind to me even after what happened to her.
She thanked me for the water.
She asked my name." Another pause.
"Nobody who gets treated like that and still asks your name deserves to be left on the floor."
I thanked her and ended the call.
Ellen was still watching me from across the kitchen.
"There's a witness," I said.
"Two, possibly."
She nodded slowly.
"And a photographer's assistant who may have seen it."
"What are you going to do with all of it?"
I thought about that for a moment.
"I'm going to let my attorney decide what's useful.
And then I'm going to call Michael."
Ellen set her cup down.
"Robert.
Before you do anything else — Michael called again while you were on the phone.
He left a voicemail."
She slid the phone across the table.
I pressed play.
Michael's voice came through the speaker, and this time it wasn't careful or controlled.
It was something else entirely.
*"Dad.
Cassandra just told me what she said to you.
About the photographs.
About — she told me her version and I need you to hear mine before you do anything.
Please.
There's something you don't know.
Something about why she—"*
The message cut off.
Thirty-eight seconds.
Then nothing.
I stared at the phone.
May you like
"He was going to tell you something," Ellen said quietly.
"And then he stopped."
