Chapter 5 - The Architect’s Alibi
Back at Oakridge Country Club, the reception was drawing to a close.
Richard Trent stood near the mahogany bar, holding a tumbler of scotch in one hand while he laughed politely at a joke told by the senior partner of his architectural firm. His tuxedo was spotless, his hair neatly combed, his public charm radiating like artificial warmth.
“And where is Nebula?” the partner’s wife asked, taking a sip of champagne. “I haven't seen her since the cake cutting.”
Richard’s smile didn't waver for a fraction of a second—a testament to three years of practice.
“She wasn't feeling well, Eleanor,” Richard said, letting a trace of fond, weary concern enter his voice. “You know how sensitive she gets with large crowds. She had one of her... episodes earlier this evening. I sent her home in a car an hour ago to rest.”
“Oh, the poor dear,” Eleanor said, her face softening with maternal sympathy. “She’s always been so delicate, hasn't she? Such a fragile spirit.”
“She is,” Richard agreed smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I worry about her constantly. But she’s safe at home now.”
Inside, beneath the polished veneer of his concern, a cold, hard knot of irritation was tightening in his chest.
He had checked the upstairs hallway ten minutes after leaving her on the patio. She wasn't in the ladies' room. Her coat was still in the coat check, unclaimed. Her phone had gone straight to voicemail when he tried calling her from the hallway.
She had run.
The thought made his jaw clench so hard his back teeth ached. For three years, he had managed her every move, isolated her from her old friends, convinced her family that she was unstable, and built an impenetrable social fortress around their marriage. A runaway wife was a crack in the foundation. And Richard Trent hated cracks in his architecture.
He excused himself from the group, murmuring something about checking on the catering staff, and walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward the exit.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his home number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“You have reached the residence of Richard and Nebula Trent. Please leave a message after the tone.”
He hung up without leaving a word. He pushed open the heavy glass doors of the country club and stepped out into the cool November air, heading toward his silver BMW parked in the private owners' lot.
As he unlocked the car door, a flicker of movement caught his eye near the edge of the tree line.
A black sedan—heavy, unmarked, with tinted windows—was parked fifty yards down the drive, idling silently in the shadows.
Richard paused, his hand resting on the car door handle. A cold drop of rain hit the back of his neck.
May you like
He stared at the black car. The headlights flashed once—a deliberate, mocking signal.
Then, before Richard could take a step toward it, the sedan pulled smoothly away, its tires whispering against the wet asphalt, leaving nothing behind but the smell of exhaust and the dark, empty night.
