Chapter 3 Mystery Solved

"We'll get to the revelation shortly, doll," Doyle said. "What about my payment?" Ashley dug into her purse and pulled out a paper bag, thick with cash. Doyle reached for it—and she yanked it back. "Five thousand. It's everything I could scrape together. You'll get it—after you tell me what you found." The detective shrugged. In truth, Doyle's policy had been payment-up-front since before this woman was old enough to drive, and he was breaking it for her without quite admitting to himself why. There was something in Ashley Palmer—something that kept getting up. He found he couldn't look away from it. "Fine. I'll do you one better. I'll show you." He opened the Prius's back door and waved her in. Tinted windows rose, sealing off the world. He set a laptop across his knees and hovered over a single video file. "This won't be easy," he warned, and there was nothing flirtatious in him now. "I'll play it. But you stop watching the second it's too much. There's no shame in that, doll. None." "Why are you being so ominous? Who's the culprit?" He clicked play. "See for yourself." The footage was grainy, the angle high and clinical—CCTV. Three masked figures waited inside an abandoned garage. Two more men shoved through the overhead door, one hauling a body over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "Recovered from a garage in Alpine Hills. Took me months to get a copy." "Alpine Hills? That's where the Palmer estate—" "Keep watching." The man dropped his burden onto the concrete, careless, like it weighed nothing. Ashley leaned in, trying to make out the face— "Oh my God. That's—" "Arthur Palmer," Doyle finished quietly. "Your father. Yes." One of the masked figures soaked a handkerchief from a small black bottle and pressed it over Arthur's face. A moment later his eyes snapped open. He began to struggle—weak, frantic, useless. "He's awake—is he still alive—" The question answered itself. The masked figure drew a serrated knife and drove it in, again and again. "No!" Ashley clamped a hand over her mouth. On the screen her father never had a chance; the blade found him until he stopped fighting, until he stopped everything, and the blood spread beneath him in a slow dark tide. Tears streamed down her face. "That's why they never found him. He was abducted. He was murdered. Right in front of me, and I couldn't do anything." A sudden chill racked her. Doyle's arm rose halfway toward her shoulders—then he thought better of it, and paused the video instead, and simply stayed close, a warm solid presence in the small dark car. "We can take this straight to the police. You don't have to watch the rest." "Let me watch all of it," she whispered. And as her father went still on the screen, something in Ashley went still with him—the fear burning off into something colder and harder. She no longer wanted comfort. She wanted a name. When it was done, the killer didn't leave right away. He stood over the body, watching Arthur die by inches—and laughed. Actually laughed, clapping like a delighted theatergoer. Only then did he turn to go, peeling off the mask as he walked. Ashley leaned in, squinting. Her whole body went still. She knew that face. Scarlet. Scarlet Palmer. Her stepsister. The world tilted. Her stomach lurched, and she barely made it out of the car before she was sick into a bush. "What the fuck—Scarlet did this?! It can't be real. It's a mistake, Harry!" "I know it's a lot, doll." He'd come around the car with a bottle of water and a handkerchief that smelled faintly of cigarettes, and he pressed both into her shaking hands. "But I've got a flash drive of WhatsApp chats showing Scarlet cutting a deal with the Zetelica gang to kill Arthur Palmer. She paid them a million dollars." "It doesn't make sense! Scarlet loved Dad!" "Can't speak to motive yet. If I had to guess—revenge, for Arthur naming you his successor. Either way, the evidence is damning. More than enough to convict." He watched her carefully. "Say the word and I call the cops right now." Her mind raced, calculation replacing grief with terrifying speed. Her face went unreadable. "No. Not yet." Flat. Controlled. "Do you have backups?" "Course I do." "Email me the video and delete everything else. If this leaks to Palmer Industries' competitors, the company topples within hours. The court reinstated me today. I need to preserve Dad's legacy first—then I bury her." Doyle protested. She won, the way she was learning she could. He took the money only after making her keep five hundred of it—"Eat something, doll, that's a professional requirement"—and watched her hail an Uber with a crease between his brows that hadn't been there an hour ago. "I'll hold the data till midnight, in case you change your mind!" he called after her. She was barely listening. On the way to the estate, she texted Jake. [Ashley: The court has reinstated me as Chairperson of Palmer Industries. I'll take back everything you stole.] [Jake: A temporary order. Scarlet and I will have it overturned.] [Ashley: Did you know Scarlet killed my father? Do you want to be in business with a murderer? Do you want to join her in prison?] [Jake: What nonsense is this? Do you have proof?] [Ashley: I have evidence. Come to Dad's place if you want the truth.]