After freshening up in Olivia’s private bathroom and obtaining blessed coffee from the nurse’s lounge, I called Officer Ramirez.
“Mrs. Harrison,” he answered promptly. “I wanted to update you on the situation with your son-in-law.”
“You found him?” I asked, stepping into the hallway to avoid disturbing Olivia.
“Miami-Dade police made contact with Mr. Thompson last night aboard the yacht you identified. They were unable to detain him on our charges immediately due to jurisdictional procedures, but they did inform him he’s wanted for questioning in Chicago.”
“So he’s still free,” I stated flatly.
“For now. But there’s been a development.” Ramirez’s voice took on a note of satisfaction. “It seems Mr. Thompson was unable to pay for his yacht charter. When the company attempted to process his card for the final payment this morning, it was declined. All his alternative payment methods were similarly rejected.”
I allowed myself a small smile.
“How unfortunate for him,” I said.
“Indeed. The charter company has filed charges for theft of services. Miami-Dade is now actively looking for him again, as he apparently left the marina sometime during the night.”
“So he’s on the run,” I concluded.
“It appears so. We’ve flagged his passport in case he attempts to leave the country, though that seems unlikely given his financial situation.” Ramirez paused. “Mrs. Harrison, I should warn you, individuals in his position often attempt to contact family members for assistance. If he reaches out—”
“He already has,” I informed him. “Multiple times. I have no intention of helping him evade responsibility.”
After ending the call, I returned to Olivia’s bedside, updating her one-sidedly on recent developments, as I’d been doing since arriving. The nurses had encouraged me to speak to her normally, explaining that many coma patients later reported awareness of conversations during their unconscious state.
“Your husband is having a very bad morning, sweetheart,” I told her, gently holding her uninjured hand. “Turns out luxury yachts expect payment. Who knew?”
Dr. Patel arrived for morning rounds, bringing cautiously optimistic news. Olivia’s latest brain scans showed reduced swelling. If the improvement continued, they planned to begin reducing her sedation tomorrow to assess her neurological function.
“Recovery from traumatic brain injuries is rarely linear,” he cautioned. “We need to prepare for a long road ahead with potential setbacks.”
“I understand,” I assured him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After he left, I opened my laptop to review Timothy’s overnight report. He’d successfully traced the mystery account receiving regular transfers from Blake. It belonged to a Jennifer Sanderson in Tampa, Florida.
The name meant nothing to me, but a quick social media search revealed a stunning brunette in her early thirties whose profession was listed as “wellness consultant and lifestyle coach.” More interesting was a photo from six months ago—two months after Olivia and Blake’s wedding—showing Jennifer on a beach with a familiar figure. The caption read, “Weekend getaway with my love. Secret rendezvous.”
The man’s face wasn’t visible, just his back as he gazed out at the ocean, but I recognized Blake’s distinctive shoulder tattoo. The tribal design he claimed represented “freedom and ambition.”
My blood ran cold.
Blake hadn’t just abandoned Olivia after the accident. He’d been betraying her all along.
I was still processing this discovery when my phone chimed with a text from an unknown Miami number.
Rebecca, it’s Blake. My phone died. We need to talk. This has all gone too far. I’m coming back to Chicago today. Please call me.
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