Part Three: The Perfect Alibi
I shifted the car into reverse and slammed on the gas pedal. The tires screeched against the gravel, kicking up mud as I tore out of the driveway, leaving Grant cursing in the rearview mirror. I drove straight to the Fort Worth Police Department, the journal clutched to my chest like a shield.
An hour later, I was sitting in a sterile interrogation room with Detective Robert Vance, a gruff man with tired eyes who had known my late husband. He read through the journal slowly, his face hardening with every page.
"Mrs. Ellis," Detective Vance sighed, rubbing his temples. "This changes things. A journal like this gives us a motive. But I have to be honest with you—Grant Whitmore has an airtight alibi for the estimated time of death."
"How?" I cried out, grabbing the edge of the table. "She wrote that he was going crazy! He was there!"
"According to the medical examiner, Hannah died between 10:00 PM and midnight on Thursday," Vance explained. "Grant was at a charity gala downtown from 8:00 PM until 1:00 AM. We have security footage of him entering and leaving. We have fifty witnesses, including local politicians and business leaders, who spoke to him throughout the night. He never left the ballroom."
"He hired someone," I whispered, the realization sickening me. "He’s a contractor. He knows criminals. He has money—or access to it."
"We checked his financial records," Vance said grimly. "Nothing unusual. No large cash withdrawals. If he hired a hitman, there's no paper trail. Without physical evidence connecting him to the scene, or a confession, this journal only proves he was a abusive husband, not a murderer. The medical examiner originally ruled the cause of death as a skull fracture consistent with a fall. The bruise on her abdomen... they assumed it happened during the tumble down the stairs."
"No," I insisted, Noah's voice echoing in my mind. Mommy’s belly is bigger. "The autopsy. Did they know she was pregnant?"
Vance froze. He flipped through the official coroner's report. "It... it says here the uterus was slightly enlarged, but given the trauma, they didn't perform a full fetal autopsy. It was ruled a secondary trauma from the fall."
"Because Grant told them she wasn't pregnant! He rushed the funeral, he rushed the burial preparation!" I stood up, my fists clenched. "They need to look again. You need to exhume her, Detective. Do a real autopsy. Prove the baby was alive before she was attacked. Prove the bruise was from a kick, not a fall!"
Vance looked at me with deep sympathy, but shook his head. "To order an exhumation against the husband's wishes, I need a judge's order. And right now, a judge won't grant it based solely on a diary and the words of a seven-year-old child. Grant’s lawyers would tear us apart."
I left the police station feeling utterly defeated. The law was protecting the monster who killed my daughter. When I got home, the house was dark. I walked into the living room, and the breath caught in my throat.
Grant was sitting in my armchair, holding Noah’s drawing of the family.
"You shouldn't have gone to the police, Marianne," he said softly, turning his head to look at me. In his other hand, he held a glass of my late husband’s whiskey. "And you really shouldn't have stolen my wife's private diary. That's family property."
"Get out of my house," I said, my voice shaking but resolute. "Where is Noah?"
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"He's asleep upstairs. Safe. For now," Grant said, standing up and walking toward me. He towered over me, his presence suffocating. "Let me make this very clear to you. You have no cards left to play. The police can't touch me. If you try to ruin my reputation, if you mention that diary to anyone else, I will take Noah. I am his father. I have full legal custody. You will never see him again, and I will make sure his life is... very difficult."
The implicit threat to my grandson made my blood run cold. I realized then that I couldn't beat Grant by playing by the rules. He had built a perfect lie. I had to build a perfect trap.
