Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig

Emma

My pulse kicked up as I stared at the older man. “It wasn’t what you’re insinuating.”

Sophie spoke. “Mr. Michelson—”

The prosecutor interrupted, asking me, “Does your brother, Kyle O’Brien, know Ross Underwood?”

“You said one more...”

I lifted my hand to Sophie. “Did he?” I corrected. “Yes, Kyle and Ross met multiple times prior to Kyle’s death.”

“Mrs. Ramses, Kyle O’Brien is very much alive.”

“I buried him four years ago. Forgive me if I’m having problems with his resurrection.”

The detective and prosecutor exchanged looks before Mr. Michelson spoke again. “Before your brother died” —he emphasized the word— “did he and Ross Underwood get along?”

“They didn’t not get along.”

“What about Mr. William Ingalls?” Mr. Michelson asked.

Oh hell no, I wasn’t going to discuss Liam.

I turned to my attorney. “I think we’re done.”

Nodding to the two gentlemen, I worked to compose myself, pushed back my chair, and stood. “I’m very sorry to hear about Ross. As his friend and business partner, I’ll mourn his loss. While I don’t know what he was thinking, in my heart, I don’t believe he would purposely harm himself.”

“Ms. Lynch, if you can wait a moment,” Mr. Michelson said, “I was recently made aware of Mr. Underwood’s wishes.” He lifted a manila folder. “Young people today think they’re invincible. Someone as young as Ross Underwood doesn’t consider death or the separation of his estate. It’s my experience that those thoughts aren’t entertained until a person has dependents.”

“Ross didn’t have dependents,” I said. “Not that he knew about.”

Mr. Michelson nodded. “In most cases, there isn’t a last will and testament. It’s about filling out the beneficiary line on life insurance and bank accounts.”

His gray eyes met mine. “With the current ruling of suicide, most insurance companies and financial institutions, such as the ones Mr. Underwood was affiliated with, refuse to pay death benefits.”

“If you’re insinuating,” I said, “that Ross’s parents are only after whatever measly insurance he had, I would argue that they care about their son’s memory more than money.”

“That’s what I found interesting, Mrs. Ramses. You see” —he opened the folder to a page filled with numbers and boxes— “you’re correct in that Mr. and Mrs. Underwood are the beneficiaries of Ross Underwood’s life insurance policy. It appears they are the ones who took out the policy when he was born. It’s only ten thousand.”

I shook my head, wondering if the Underwoods needed help. I made a mental note to talk to Rett. After all, it was my husband’s choice to not have a prenuptial agreement. That should mean I have some say in where money was allocated.

“That wasn’t Mr. Underwood’s only asset,” Mr. Michelson said.

“He didn’t have much. That’s why we were looking for investors.”

“Mrs. Ramses, Mr. Underwood had a Kraken account.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It’s an account for electronic currency. His account received numerous deposits over the last eighteen months.”

My pulse kicked up. If I was supposed to look surprised, it wasn’t an act. “Again, I don’t know what this means.”

“It means that Mr. Underwood died a very wealthy man.”

I exhaled. “Good, his parents will—”

“Mrs. Ramses, you are listed as the account’s sole beneficiary.”

“What?”

Sophie reached for my elbow. “As you can tell, Mrs. Ramses is surprised by this information. She didn’t know anything about it.”

Michelson’s gray gaze narrowed. “Of course not. I’m sure an amount north of roughly three million dollars would have no effect on your statement regarding Mr. Underwood’s state of mind.”

My rushing pulse rang in my ears as I lifted my hands. “I don’t want Ross’s money. That doesn’t even make sense. He had his parents and a brother. He and I weren’t that close.”

Mr. Michelson nodded. “Of course you weren’t. Again, why were you in his hotel room?”

Sophie reached for my elbow. “We are leaving.”

Mr. Michelson feigned a smile. “Thank you for coming in today.” He spoke to Sophie. “Should I contact you if we need additional information from your client?’

I wasn’t confident in her answer, or anything after that moment.

Did Rett know about the account and that I was the beneficiary?

Why didn’t he warn me?

Or didn’t he know, and now when he learns, he’ll question my earlier answer about my relationship with Ross?

A million questions floated around in my head as we met Ian in the hallway. Together, he and Sophie walked with me to the car.

“Mrs. Ramses, are you all right?” Ian asked.

I nodded. “I want to go home.”

He opened the door to the back seat. As I sat, the driver’s gaze met me in the rearview mirror. I recognized him as one of Rett’s men named Noah. If I knew his last name, at the moment it was escaping me.

“Mrs. Ramses.”

“Noah, I doubt there was another option, but I want to get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sophie, Mr. Clark, and Ian spoke for a moment outside the car before Ian joined us, sitting in the front passenger seat. Once he did, I closed my eyes and laid my head against the seat.

It had taken us roughly twenty-five minutes to get to the courthouse. I wasn’t well enough informed on the comings and goings in New Orleans or its traffic patterns to know if the trip home would be better or worse.

Cars passed in the opposite direction. People walked the sidewalks. My thoughts were back on Ross and that he’d named me as a beneficiary.

Why did he do that?

Laying my head back again, I closed my eyes, shutting out the world I’d been away from for over a month and a half. There were so many people, sounds, and even scents. I imagined I was back in my suite, the second-floor one.

With my eyes still shut, I didn’t prepare for the hard jolt preceding a loud crash. My body was thrown forward only to be stopped by the tightening of the seat belt. My eyes popped open. Loud noises rang in my ears as I ducked away from the shattering glass.

Airbags inflated around the interior perimeter of the vehicle as smoke and dust filled the air.

Had we been hit or did we hit something?

“Ian?” I called toward the front seat between coughs.

The door beside me rattled. My first thought was that someone was trying to help.

I reached for the door handle and unlocked it. The hinges creaked as the door was pried open. The eyes staring at me weren’t my husband’s. Nevertheless, I knew them.

“Liam? What are you...?”

He leaned in and unbuckled the seat belt before pulling me to the street. “You’re coming with us.”

“I can’t.” I turned back to the car. I tried to protest through the coughs. “I have to help—”

My knees gave out as a man in a hooded sweatshirt pointed a pistol into the front driver’s side window. “No.”

Two loud shots reverberated through the air taking away my plea.

Liam held me upright as I wavered. “Oh my God, Ian.”

“Get her in the car, now,” Liam ordered as a second car came forward.

Another man in a hooded sweatshirt reached for my arm.

“Ian.” Tears filled my eyes as I fought the grip. My heels bore down on the pavement. Despite the growing crowd, no one stepped forward. It didn’t take long to realize that I was no match for the man pushing me into the back seat of the newly arriving car.

Alarm.

Panic.

Worry.

My body was racked with coughs from inhaling the smoke and powder, and my hands and legs trembled to the point of convulsion. Gasping for breath, I fought to breathe as I unsuccessfully tried to open the door from the inside.

The car was already moving.

“Calm down, Emma. You’re going to be all right.”

I turned to the voice, a woman’s voice.

My chaotic state of mind had blinded me from my surroundings. I hadn’t noticed the woman seated only a small distance from me. If I had, I might reason I was peering through a mirror, one with the technology of fast forwarding through time.

As I unsuccessfully fought the terror-induced tears and worked to breathe, I recalled what Rett had mentioned about danger and asked the question to which I already knew the answer, “Jezebel?”

“You can call me Mom.”