Chapter 6 - Uninvited at the Altar
The clock struck four.
The brass church bells of the Belmont estate began to chime, echoing across the manicured lawns. Two hundred guests took their seats in rows of white mahogany chairs. The string quartet struck the first delicate notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D, their bows gliding across strings in seamless harmony.
At the front of the gazebo stood Adrian.
He was the picture of aristocratic perfection. His hair was impeccably styled, his shoes were buffed to a mirror shine, and his face wore the serene, confident expression of a man who had successfully conquered the world. Beside him stood his officiant—a retired state supreme court justice—and Julian, whose tuxedo collar was visibly soaked with nervous sweat. Julian kept darting his eyes toward the perimeter, looking for security, looking for me, looking for an escape hatch.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtyard swung open.
The guests rose in unison.
Evelyn Sterling appeared on the arm of her father, Arthur Sterling. Arthur was an imposing, silver-haired patriarch with piercing blue eyes, a man who had built an empire by spotting weakness in others and crushing it without mercy. Evelyn looked breathtaking, a vision of pure, innocent grace, clutching the bridal bouquet of white roses and weeping eucalyptus I had handed her five minutes earlier.
As she stepped onto the ivory runner, Adrian smiled warmly, placing a hand over his heart in a gesture of profound, theatrical devotion.
I stood at the back of the pavilion, near the audio-visual control tent. The head coordinator waved her hand frantically at the tech booth. ""Cue the house lighting dimmers and run the groom’s presentation!"" she hissed through her radio.
""Running cue four now!"" the technician yelled back.
The music swelled. The sunlight in the courtyard was suddenly eclipsed by the blazing brilliance of four gigantic LED screens mounted above the gazebo and along the perimeter walls.
The crowd gasped softly, expecting a montage of childhood photos, equestrian matches, or romantic vacations in Saint-Tropez.
Instead, the first image that flashed across the massive screens was an official state document: COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS: CERTIFICATE OF DEATH.
A murmur rippled through the front rows. Arthur Sterling stopped mid-stride on the runner, his brow furrowing in confusion. Evelyn paused, looking up at the screen with a startled, quizzical smile, thinking it was some kind of avant-garde artistic introduction.
The name on the death certificate was zoomed in to fill the entire twenty-foot display: ADRIAN MICHAEL PARKER.
Underneath it, the date of death: JULY 14. Exactly ninety days ago.
Then, the screens split. On the left side appeared a high-resolution photograph of Adrian Parker standing in front of my humble floral shop two years ago, wearing a faded sweater and kissing my cheek. On the right side appeared the crystal-clear photo I had taken thirty minutes ago through the dressing room door—Adrian in his wedding suit, smirking into the mirror while Colleen adjusted his tie.
The murmurs exploded into shocked, audible gasps.
Adrian’s face instantly drained of every drop of blood. He stumbled forward one step, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. ""Turn it off!"" he shouted toward the tech booth, his voice cracking with panic. ""Turn it off right now! That’s a malware hack! Cut the power!""
Julian turned around and bolted toward the side hedge, abandoning his brother on the altar.
Before the technician could react, the audio system engaged. Adrian’s voice, amplified through twelve line-array speakers, boomed across the entire estate with deafening clarity:
“Arthur will pay her five hundred thousand dollars to sign a non-disclosure agreement just to keep the Sterling name out of the tabloids. Either way, we win.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
It was a suffocating, suffocating silence where you could hear the flutter of bird wings in the oak trees above. Arthur Sterling let go of his daughter’s arm. His face was no longer confused; it was transformed into a mask of volcanic, aristocratic rage.
Evelyn dropped her bouquet. The white roses hit the ivory carpet and scattered.
""Anthony?"" she whispered, her voice carrying across the silent rows. ""What... what is that?""
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I stepped out from behind the audio tent, took the wireless handheld microphone from the podium near the entrance, and pressed the talk switch.
""His name isn't Anthony Vance, Miss Sterling,"" I said, my voice ringing out smooth, clear, and steady through every speaker on the grounds. ""His name is Adrian Parker. And three months ago, I buried him in a closed casket.""
