So, with a high degree of efficiency and brilliance, Chase Prescott engineered his own murder. He didn't care about the misery it would cause those
left behind as suspects. He wanted suspects. He •wanted the hunt for a murderer to continue. It had to be murder, and Chase didn't care what it cost either his family or his associates so long as Prescott Communications, the one thing he had loved on this earth, survived.
Now I knew.
What could I do?
What should I do?
If I made this claim, I had not a shred of evidence to back it up.
Knowledge of a man's character isn't enough in a court of lav/.
The insurance company would be delighted and would resist the claim.
Still, wasn't it my duty to press to see that the truth came out?
An idealist would choose truth.
A realist would gauge whether the revelation would have any practical effect.
A leaf fluttered down onto my lap. I brushed it away from Emily's photograph.
My lovely daughter. They say daughters are so often the image of their fathers. The slender, elegant, fine-boned face, the glossy ebony hair, a mirror image of Chase Prescott as a young man.
I'd decided before she was born that she would not grow up with a father who cared nothing for what was right.
And she had not. She'd adored Richard and admired him, and, like him, grown to be an honorable person.
It was the right decision now.
Any mother would understand.,
The world might disagree, deem my choice reprehensible.
But, for now and forever, I was determined.
The world had its story, and I would let it be. Trevor was guilty of murder, that was certain. And though he hadn't murdered Chase, he had been a collaborator in Chase's death. So I would let it be. Let Roger remember his father with honor; let Miranda idealize the man she'd loved too much; let Prescott Communications take on the battles against greed and pollution and social despair; let Emily remain firm in her devotion to Richard, the father she'd known.
And let me bury the ghost of a dead lover. For-
ever.
bookdesigner@the-ebook.org
5/15/2009