Page 62 of Sins of a Husband

I pull up houses for sale and study the few that are available. One catches my attention and is located on Frances Street. It’s a beautiful multi-level, white-sided home surrounded by a white picket fence. Black shutters grace the windows, and the wraparound porch reminds me of Katherine’s house. I review the photos of the four-bedroom, four-bath, three-thousand-fifteen-square-foot home that has been completely renovated. It’s perfect, and I can see myself living there—no more brutally cold and snowy New York City winters. Just plenty of sunshine and warm weather. No more boots or coats—just shorts, tank tops, maxi dresses, and sandals. Tomorrow, I will call the realtor and put in an offer.

Chapter Forty-Six

DETECTIVE PAIGE WALKER

One Month Later

I standin disbelief over the lifeless body of Travis Moore, the husband of Samantha Moore. Blood pools around him, staining the hardwood floor beneath. But what truly captures my attention is the sharp blade of a chef’s knife strategically placed on his abdomen, covered in his blood.

“How many stab wounds?” I ask.

“I counted twenty-two,” Olin says.

“Bag up that knife and get it to the lab to be tested ASAP.”

I walk into the kitchen, where Mrs. Moore sits at the table, sobbing.

“Mrs. Moore, I need to ask you some questions.”

She nods and blows her nose into the tissue I hand her.

“Was your husband having an affair?”

She nods again as more tears stream down her face. “I had no idea until I came home, found my husband in theliving room, and this letter next to his body.” She points to the paper with cut-out letters pasted to it.

Your husband needed to be punished for his sins. He was cheating on you with a twenty-year-old intern from his office. Every Thursday, when he told you he played cards with the guys, he tookherto room 2416 at the Waldorf Astoria. Talk to the concierge there. He will confirm it. You deserve better.

I place my hand on my forehead and sigh. I pick up the letter with my glove-covered hands and hand it to Olin.

“Bag this and get it tested immediately for fingerprints other than Mrs. Moore’s.”

I climb into my car and head back to the station.

“Was it The Widowmaker?” the captain asks when I enter his office.

“Yes. But this time, he or she left the murder weapon on top of the victim. They also left a letter telling Mrs. Moore that her husband was cheating on her with some twenty-year-old intern.”

“The murder weapon and a letter?” the captain’s brows furrowed. “Do you think this is a copycat?”

“It’s possible.”

“Find the son-of-a-bitch doing this.” He points at me.

Like I haven’t been trying for months.

Katherine Tate vanished.One minute, I followed and watched her every move; the next, she was nowhere to be found. She walked into the Plaza one day, but I never saw her leave. When I asked the hotel manager when she checked out, he told me they had no record of her everstaying there, so I requested the video footage from the day she arrived at the hotel. With a heavy sigh, the manager told me that the cameras had malfunctioned that day, and he was forced to call in a team to fix them.

After running a check on Katherine, I was at another dead end. There were no recent credit card transactions under her name, no evidence of plane tickets purchased, and no rental properties tied to her identity. It was as if she had vanished without a trace.

A few hours later, Olin walks over and throws a file on my desk.

“Results from the letter and knife,” he says.

“And?” I pick up the file and open it.

“Nothing. No fingerprints at all. Only Mrs. Moore’s was found on the letter. The crime scene was clean, too.”

“Of course it was.” I sigh, throwing down the file.

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