Chapter 3
Ethan followed us upstairs without another word. His boots left wet prints on the hardwood, each footfall deliberate and measured, like a man accustomed to walking into bad situations.
When he stepped into the honeymoon suite, he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just stood in the doorway for a long moment, scanning the room with the cold precision of someone who had seen death before.
Then he turned to us.
"Everyone out. Wait in the living room."
"We're not leaving her husband alone with a stranger," Harper said, stepping forward. Her voice had found its steel again.
Ethan didn't argue. He simply moved to the bed and began his examination — careful, methodical, never touching more than necessary.
We watched from the doorway in a tight cluster, four women surrounding me like bodyguards.
"Single stab wound," Ethan said, more to himself than to us. "Left side of the chest. Direct hit to the heart. Minimal defensive wounds." He paused. "The weapon?"
"We haven't found one," Grace said.
Ethan lifted his gaze to meet hers. "You looked?"
Grace didn't blink. "I'm a defense attorney. I know not to disturb a scene. But I also know when something's obviously missing."
Ethan straightened up from the bed and studied her. Then he studied each of us — slowly, one by one, like he was memorizing our faces.
When his eyes landed on me, they lingered on my dress. On the bloodstains.
"You're the wife?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Tell me what you remember."
"Nothing," I whispered. "I blacked out during the reception. I woke up on the bathroom floor this morning. The door was locked from the inside. When I came out... he was already..."
Ethan's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes — a calculation, a reassessment.
"The bathroom door locks from the inside?"
"Yes."
"And you were locked in it?"
"Yes."
He looked toward the bathroom, then back at me. "Who else has the key to this room?"
"There are no keys," Mara answered. "It's a keypad lock. The code is the same for every room. The wedding planner set it up — 0621. Our wedding date."
Ethan absorbed this, nodded, and turned back to Ryan's body.
"The time of death — based on rigor and temperature — I'd estimate between midnight and three a.m." He looked at Nadia. "You're the surgeon?"
Nadia startled slightly. "How did you—"
"The way you positioned your fingers when checking his pulse. Clinical. Practiced." He paused. "Your estimate?"
Nadia hesitated, then nodded. "Same window. Based on lividity and the state of the blood... yes. Midnight to three."
Ethan pulled out a small notebook — waterlogged but functional — and began writing. "I'll need statements from each of you. What you remember, what you drank, what time you went to bed."
"We already told you," Harper said. "Nobody remembers anything. We were all drunk."
"All five of you blacked out on the same night your friend's husband was murdered?" Ethan asked. His tone wasn't accusatory — not quite — but the implication hung in the air like smoke.
"It was a wedding," Harper shot back. "People drink at weddings."
"People don't usually end up dead at weddings."
The tension in the room tightened another notch.
Ethan closed his notebook and gave us one last look. "Nobody leaves this house. Nobody touches anything upstairs. I'm going to check the grounds for any sign of an intruder."
He moved past us and descended the stairs.
The moment he was gone, Harper spun to face me, gripping both my shoulders.
"Lily. Listen to me carefully." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Whatever you do — do not talk to him alone. Do you understand?"
The intensity in her eyes terrified me more than anything else that morning.
"Why?" I breathed. "Harper, what aren't you telling me?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. She glanced at the others — at Nadia, Grace, and Mara — and something passed between them. A silent conversation I wasn't part of.
Then Harper looked back at me, and her expression softened into something that broke my heart: pity.
"Because we don't know what he'll find," she whispered. "And until we do, we protect our own."
When he stepped into the honeymoon suite, he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just stood in the doorway for a long moment, scanning the room with the cold precision of someone who had seen death before.
Then he turned to us.
"Everyone out. Wait in the living room."
"We're not leaving her husband alone with a stranger," Harper said, stepping forward. Her voice had found its steel again.
Ethan didn't argue. He simply moved to the bed and began his examination — careful, methodical, never touching more than necessary.
We watched from the doorway in a tight cluster, four women surrounding me like bodyguards.
"Single stab wound," Ethan said, more to himself than to us. "Left side of the chest. Direct hit to the heart. Minimal defensive wounds." He paused. "The weapon?"
"We haven't found one," Grace said.
Ethan lifted his gaze to meet hers. "You looked?"
Grace didn't blink. "I'm a defense attorney. I know not to disturb a scene. But I also know when something's obviously missing."
Ethan straightened up from the bed and studied her. Then he studied each of us — slowly, one by one, like he was memorizing our faces.
When his eyes landed on me, they lingered on my dress. On the bloodstains.
"You're the wife?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Tell me what you remember."
"Nothing," I whispered. "I blacked out during the reception. I woke up on the bathroom floor this morning. The door was locked from the inside. When I came out... he was already..."
Ethan's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes — a calculation, a reassessment.
"The bathroom door locks from the inside?"
"Yes."
"And you were locked in it?"
"Yes."
He looked toward the bathroom, then back at me. "Who else has the key to this room?"
"There are no keys," Mara answered. "It's a keypad lock. The code is the same for every room. The wedding planner set it up — 0621. Our wedding date."
Ethan absorbed this, nodded, and turned back to Ryan's body.
"The time of death — based on rigor and temperature — I'd estimate between midnight and three a.m." He looked at Nadia. "You're the surgeon?"
Nadia startled slightly. "How did you—"
"The way you positioned your fingers when checking his pulse. Clinical. Practiced." He paused. "Your estimate?"
Nadia hesitated, then nodded. "Same window. Based on lividity and the state of the blood... yes. Midnight to three."
Ethan pulled out a small notebook — waterlogged but functional — and began writing. "I'll need statements from each of you. What you remember, what you drank, what time you went to bed."
"We already told you," Harper said. "Nobody remembers anything. We were all drunk."
"All five of you blacked out on the same night your friend's husband was murdered?" Ethan asked. His tone wasn't accusatory — not quite — but the implication hung in the air like smoke.
"It was a wedding," Harper shot back. "People drink at weddings."
"People don't usually end up dead at weddings."
The tension in the room tightened another notch.
Ethan closed his notebook and gave us one last look. "Nobody leaves this house. Nobody touches anything upstairs. I'm going to check the grounds for any sign of an intruder."
He moved past us and descended the stairs.
The moment he was gone, Harper spun to face me, gripping both my shoulders.
"Lily. Listen to me carefully." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Whatever you do — do not talk to him alone. Do you understand?"
The intensity in her eyes terrified me more than anything else that morning.
"Why?" I breathed. "Harper, what aren't you telling me?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. She glanced at the others — at Nadia, Grace, and Mara — and something passed between them. A silent conversation I wasn't part of.
Then Harper looked back at me, and her expression softened into something that broke my heart: pity.
"Because we don't know what he'll find," she whispered. "And until we do, we protect our own."