Loving My Dead Husband's Brother

Chapter Two: The Woman They Wanted to Blame

The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then the world came rushing back.

Camera shutters exploded like gunfire. Reporters shouted over one another. Someone yelled my name. Someone else screamed Jaxon's. I couldn't move. I was still staring at Detective Noah Hayes, waiting for him to tell me this was all some terrible mistake.

"You can't seriously believe that."

His expression gave nothing away. "I believe the evidence requires us to investigate every possibility."

"Evidence?" My voice rose despite myself. "A page from my manuscript and a pen that disappeared three years ago? That's your evidence?"

"It's enough to ask questions."

"No." I took a step back. "It's enough to frame someone."

His jaw flexed. "I hope you're right."

Hope. That was the second time he'd used that word, and both times it had sounded less like reassurance than a warning.

An officer approached, holding open the rear door of an unmarked sedan. "We're ready, Detective."

Noah nodded once, then looked back at me. "I need you to come with us."

I let out a hollow laugh. "So this isn't voluntary anymore."

"I'm asking for your cooperation."

"And if I refuse?"

His silence answered for him.

The reporters caught on immediately.

"She's being taken in!"

"Mrs. Kane, are you under arrest?"

"Did you help your husband escape justice?"

"Look this way!"

Microphones pushed through the line of officers. Camera flashes burst so rapidly they blurred into a single wall of white light. Someone grabbed my sleeve, and I flinched hard enough that the officer beside me pulled the reporter away by the shoulder—but the damage was already done. Every pair of eyes on that street had decided who I was. Not Chloe. Not an author. Not a widow. A criminal's wife. Maybe a criminal herself.

Noah opened the car door wider. "Please."

I looked at the crowd one last time. Three years ago, those same cameras had waited outside my house after Jaxon's death, hungry for tears. Today they wanted a confession instead.

I slid into the back seat without another word. The door shut behind me, muffling the questions the reporters kept pounding against the glass. The car pulled away.

No one spoke for the first ten minutes. Rain streaked across the window, smearing the city into gray buildings and broken reflections. I watched people on the sidewalks—laughing, talking, living lives that hadn't been picked apart on the evening news—and wondered, almost idly, what that felt like now.

"You've been quiet," Noah said from the front seat.

"I figured anything I say will be written down."

"It will."

"Then I'll save us both the time."

The corner of his mouth almost moved. Almost. "You've handled public attention before."

"I've handled book signings." I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Not murder investigations."

He looked away first, and the silence settled back over the car like a second passenger.

When the headquarters building came into view, my stomach tightened. It looked exactly as I remembered it from television—cold, gray, and entirely unwelcoming. The car rolled down into an underground garage where there were no cameras waiting, no reporters, just concrete pillars and fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.

An officer opened my door. "This way."

Every footstep echoed through the empty garage. Inside the station, conversations died as we walked past. Some officers glanced up from their desks; others stared openly. One leaned toward another and murmured something. I only caught two words.

Kane widow.

That was all I was now. Not Chloe. Not a bestselling novelist. Just the widow of the man history had already convicted.

Noah led me down a narrow hallway and stopped outside a gray metal door before pushing it open. The interrogation room was smaller than I'd imagined—one table, three chairs, a camera fixed high in the corner, and a dark observation mirror covering almost an entire wall. I caught my own reflection in it and wondered whether it really was only my reflection. Someone could be standing on the other side of that glass right now, watching, judging, waiting.

"Please, sit."

I lowered myself into the chair. It was colder than the room itself.

Noah placed a thick folder on the table. My name was printed across the front in block letters—CHLOE KANE—and seeing it there made my pulse quicken.

"When did you open this file?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer. Instead, he opened it and began laying pages across the table one by one: newspaper clippings, crime scene photographs, financial reports, copies of old interviews, even my book covers. Then he placed a single photograph in the center. Jaxon. The last official photo ever taken of him, smiling for the camera. I remembered that day—I'd snapped that exact smile myself, seconds before the photographer had.

Noah folded his hands. "Mrs. Kane, I need you to tell me everything you know about the week before your husband's death."

The room went quiet. I lifted my eyes slowly from the photograph, and that was when I noticed it—movement behind the observation mirror. A shadow, still and watching, taking in every word I was about to say.

I couldn't look away from it. Neither, it seemed, could the shadow.

"Mrs. Kane?" Noah's voice pulled me back.

"I'm sorry." I forced myself to look at him. "What did you ask?"

"The week before Jaxon's death."

My chest tightened. "You make it sound like a fact."

His brows drew together. "What?"

"You keep saying his death." I swallowed hard. "You weren't there."

For the first time since we'd met, Noah looked almost uncomfortable. "The official investigation concluded—"

"I know what the official investigation concluded. I've had three years of people reminding me." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, and neither of us moved to soften them.

He let the silence sit for a moment before opening the file again. "Let's start somewhere simpler. When was the last time you saw your husband?"

"The morning before the explosion."

"What happened?"

I closed my eyes, and the memory arrived with painful clarity. "He was late for a board meeting." A small smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. "He could negotiate billion-dollar contracts without blinking, but he never once managed to make breakfast without losing track of time."

Noah didn't interrupt.

"He made coffee. Burned the toast." A short laugh escaped me before I could catch it. "He always burned the toast." The laugh died as quickly as it had come. "He kissed my forehead, told me he'd be home for dinner, and he left."

Noah wrote something quietly in his notebook. "Did he seem worried?"

"No."

"Anxious?"

"No."

"Did he mention anyone threatening him?"

I shook my head. "He kept work at work."

"Even from you?"

"Especially from me."

He looked up. "Why?"

"Because he knew I'd worry."

Noah leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Kane—"

"Chloe."

He hesitated. "...Chloe." It was the first time he'd used my name, and something about hearing it in that room made the whole conversation feel more dangerous, not less. "I've reviewed your husband's financial records."

I frowned. "So?"

"There were several large transfers in the month before he disappeared."

"I don't know anything about company finances."

"They weren't company accounts." He watched my face carefully. "They came from his personal accounts."

My heartbeat seemed to slow down inside my chest. "What do you mean?"

He slid a document across the table—highlighted transactions, millions of dollars, multiple countries, multiple dates. I looked at the signature at the bottom. Jaxon Kane. My stomach twisted.

"These are fake."

"You recognized the signature immediately."

"Because I've seen his signature thousands of times." I pushed the paper back toward him. "This isn't his."

"You can tell?"

"Yes."

"How?"

I pointed at the page. "Jaxon always curved the J." My finger moved lower. "He never crossed the K this high." I flipped to another page. "The spacing is wrong." And another. "And he'd never sign an official document with this pen."

Noah blinked. "You noticed all of that in less than a minute."

"I was married to him."

His eyes lingered on me a moment longer than necessary before dropping back to the documents, as though he were seeing them differently now.

A knock interrupted us. The door opened, and a young officer stepped halfway inside.

"Detective."

"What is it?"

The officer glanced at me before lowering his voice. "You have visitors."

"I said no interruptions."

"I know, sir. But they're insisting."

Noah rubbed his forehead. "Who?"

"The victim's family. They've seen the news." The officer's eyes flicked to me again. "They think she's responsible."

The room fell silent. Noah stood. "They're not coming in here."

"They're already in the hallway."

Before he could take a step, a fist slammed against the wall outside.

"You murdered my daughter!"

Another crash. A woman's scream tore through the door, straight into my chest.

"You and your husband ruined our lives!"

I froze. The voice wasn't angry anymore—it had cracked into something broken, something grieving, and that was almost worse. Another crash followed, then officers shouting over each other.

"Ma'am, you need to calm down!"

"Let me see her!"

"She doesn't get to hide!"

The doorknob rattled hard enough that I pushed my chair back without meaning to, my breathing turning shallow and quick. The screaming didn't stop.

Then a man's voice cut through the chaos—deep, calm, and steady in a way that made the whole hallway seem to hold its breath.

"That's enough."

Everything outside went strangely quiet. Even Noah turned toward the door.

The voice spoke again. "If you're looking for someone to blame, you're in the wrong hallway."

I frowned. Something about that voice was familiar. Painfully familiar.

The door opened, and a tall man stepped inside, wearing a black leather jacket with rain still clinging to the shoulders, as if he'd walked straight through the storm to get here. His eyes found mine, and for a second neither of us said anything at all.

My breath caught.

"She's done answering questions."