Richard's Alibi

I pocketed the ring, the velvet box, and the coaster. My hands were trembling, but not from fear. From clarity.

I knew who Julian was now. Not the tragic ghost Richard mourned. Not the golden boy Arthur idolized.

He was a murderer. And my husband was his accomplice.

I left the attic, closing the door softly behind me. The house was still silent, but the silence felt different now. It wasn't empty. It was waiting.

I went back to the study. I needed to know where Richard had been.

I sat at his desk, waking his iPad with the passcode I had memorized years ago—*041495*. The date of the "accident."

I opened the location history. It was empty. Wiped clean.

"Of course," I whispered. Richard wasn't stupid. He was weak, but he was careful.

I opened the car app. The BMW had a built-in GPS tracker, separate from his phone.

I clicked on *History*.

There it was. A map of his movements for the last month.

Every morning: Home to Office.
Every evening: Office to Home.

But every Tuesday night, at exactly 11:45 p.m., the car left the driveway.

*Destination: 24-Hour Pharmacy.*

It was a plausible alibi. Arthur needed meds. Richard was a good son.

But I clicked on the details.

*Engine Start: 11:45 PM.*
*Engine Stop: 11:50 PM.*
*Location: Driveway.*

The car never left the property.

He started the engine to trigger the log. He let it run for five minutes. Then he turned it off.

I scrolled through the weeks. It was consistent. Every Tuesday.

And then, he would walk to the Carriage House.

I looked at the dates. Last Tuesday. The Tuesday before.

And then I saw something else. A deviation.

Three weeks ago, on a Thursday.

*Engine Start: 2:00 AM.*
*Engine Stop: 4:30 AM.*
*Location: Regional Airport, Private Terminal.*

The airport.

Why would Richard go to the airport in the middle of the night?

I checked the calendar. That was the week Maya's tuition check bounced.

I opened the bank app on the iPad. I didn't have access to the main trust account, but I could see the linked credit card statements.

On that Thursday, there was a charge at the airport.

*Fuel Service: $5,000.*

Richard didn't own a plane. Arthur sold the company jet ten years ago.

I cross-referenced the date with the flight logs for the local airfield, which were public record.

*Departure: 2:30 AM.*
*Destination: Grand Cayman.*
*Passenger Manifest: 1.*

The name wasn't listed. But the tail number was registered to *Phoenix Holdings*.

Richard wasn't just visiting the Carriage House. He was moving assets. Or people.

Was he planning to move Julian? Or was he moving the money?

I heard a car door slam outside.

I minimized the window and locked the iPad. I stood up and walked to the window, peering through the heavy drapes.

The rain had stopped, leaving the driveway slick and black. Richard’s BMW was parked near the garage.

But he wasn't getting out.

He was sitting in the driver's seat, the engine off, the interior light on. He was staring at the steering wheel, his head in his hands.

He looked broken. Defeated.

And then, he looked up.

He looked directly at the study window.

He couldn't see me in the dark. But he knew I was there. He knew I was always there, watching, managing, cleaning up the mess.

He opened the car door and stepped out. He didn't walk to the front door.

He walked to the trunk.

He opened it.

And he pulled out a shovel.