Chapter 3 - The Cold Truth of David Sterling
The fluorescent lights of the precinct holding room buzzed with an irritating hum that mirrored the frantic static inside my head. Detective Miller sat across from us, his coat rumpled and a cup of black coffee steaming between his scarred hands. He slid a stack of printed documents across the scarred metal table.
"We searched his office at Sterling Capital early this morning," Detective Miller said, his tone flat and businesslike. "Or what’s left of it. The firm is a shell company, Maya. David didn't make his millions through venture capitalism. He targets wealthy women with independent inheritances, marries them under the guise of romance, takes out massive, multi-million-dollar life insurance policies, and then stages tragic accidents within the first six months of marriage."
I stared at the pages, my breath catching in my throat. Photos of three other women stared back at me. All of them young, all of them beautiful, all of them smiling in bridal white. And all of them dead. Boating accident. Horseback riding tragedy. Sudden acute cardiac arrest.
"My god," I whispered, the veil slipping from my shoulders onto the dirty floor. "He was going to do it on our wedding night. Before we even reached our honeymoon."
"He liked the drama of public spectacle," Sarah added bitterly, her hands wrapped tightly around a styrofoam cup of water. "He told me once that high-society deaths generate immediate sympathy, which keeps federal investigators from digging too deeply into probate court. He had everything arranged—the will, the beneficiaries, the offshore accounts in the Caymans. If you had taken that bite, Maya, your entire family estate would have been liquidated and transferred to an unlinked foreign trust by Monday morning."
The horror of it washed over me in cold waves. I had spent eighteen months planning menus, seating charts, and floral arrangements with a man who had already calculated the precise chemical dose required to stop my heart. Every sweet text message, every romantic weekend getaway, every whispered promise under the stars—it had all been a rehearsal for murder.
"Where is he now?" I asked, my voice hardening, the initial shock giving way to a dangerous, burning clarity.
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"Interrogation room B," Detective Miller replied, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "His lawyers are already on their way from the city, trying to claim diplomatic immunity or some corporate loophole. But we have him dead to rights on attempted murder, conspiracy, and wire fraud. We found the chat logs with the poison supplier on his burner phone. He won't be seeing daylight for a very long time."
"Good," I said, rising to my feet alongside Sarah. "Because I have a few things I want to say to my wonderful husband."
