Chapter 4 - Blood and Treason
The drive to the Desert Palm Event Center took forty-five minutes. As we rode, I borrowed Walter’s burner phone and dialed the landline to my ranch. I held my breath as the ringtone chimed four times before the answering machine clicked on. Valerie’s voice filled the speaker, youthful and cheerful, asking the caller to leave a message.
Hearing her voice nearly broke my composure. She didn't know yet. If Leticia followed the usual protocol, she was waiting until after the scheduled noon cremation to notify my daughter, feigning uncontrollable grief while playing the supportive stepmother. That way, Valerie wouldn't have time to demand an autopsy or question the rapid disposal of my remains.
"Don't call her cell," Walter advised quietly, keeping his eyes on the freeway. "Leticia might already be at the house. If she sees a strange number popping up or hears Valerie acting suspicious, she might eliminate the girl to secure the estate without probate contests."
The mere thought of Leticia laying a hand on Valerie made my blood turn to liquid fire. I squeezed the phone until the plastic casing creaked, forcing my breathing into a steady rhythm. "She won't touch my daughter. I’ll tear her apart before she gets within ten feet of Valerie."
We pulled into the rear service lot of the Desert Palm Event Center. The facility was quiet on Sunday morning; the main ballroom was dark, but two commercial delivery trucks were parked by the kitchen bay doors, where a cleanup crew was sorting through table linens, floral arrangements, and stacks of banquet dishware.
Walter pulled his truck behind an industrial dumpster. We pulled our caps low and walked confidently through the loading dock. Having spent my life managing construction crews, I knew how to blend into industrial environments without drawing attention. We picked up empty plastic bus tubs and walked straight into the dishwashing zone.
Suddenly, a voice echoed from the office at the end of the hall. It was a woman’s voice—shrill, agitated, and undeniably familiar.
"I don't care how much it costs to buy out the entire crate!" Connie was shouting. "My brother paid fifty thousand dollars for this reception. The custom crystal glasses were a gift from my family. I want them back right now!"
I froze behind a stack of beverage crates, signaling Walter to stay back. Peering through the gap between two metal warming carts, I saw my sister Connie standing over the event manager’s desk. She was red-faced, her designer purse clutched tightly against her ribs, her hands trembling with frantic urgency.
"Mrs. Alvarez," the manager replied patiently, looking annoyed. "All custom souvenir items were packed into storage bins and placed in the bridal suite late last night. If you didn't take them when the party ended at two in the morning, our custodial team moved them to the locked storage cage out back."
"Take me to the cage right now," Connie demanded, her voice bordering on hysteria. "Every single minute you waste is costing me everything!"
Standing in the shadows, my heart sank into my stomach. Connie wasn't just complicit in the aftermath—she was actively hunting for the poisoned glass to cover Leticia’s tracks. My own sister, whom I had supported financially through two divorces, whose mortgage I had paid when her boutique failed, was actively working to erase the evidence of my murder.
"Look at her eyes," Walter whispered behind me. "She isn't acting like a mastermind. She's acting like a hostage."
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I watched Connie closely. Her shoulders were hunched, her gaze darting erratically toward the parking lot every few seconds. She was terrified. Whatever deal she had made with Leticia, the reality of my 'death' had pushed her into a corner of sheer panic.
"We follow her to the storage cage," I whispered to Walter. "When the manager leaves, we corner her. It's time to find out what my sister traded my life for."
