A Day in a Life

Chapter Two

Elijah

I PARK IN front of Cole Greer’s house, a well-maintained two-story colonial in a quiet neighborhood. It’s not a wealthy neighborhood by any means, but it’s a notch above middle class.

It’s heartbreaking to see the husband still lives in the same house he lived in with Sydni. He must be finding it hard to let go.

I’m early, so I read through the minuscule police report one more time.

Cole Greer was described as visibly traumatized when he heard the news of his wife’s accident. Foul play wasn’t suspected. He had no need to prove his heartache with dramatics. He was at work at the time of the accident, had a rock-solid alibi. A coworker spoke for him, claiming she was working late with him that night.

Begs a Pandora’s box of questions, right there. As far as I can tell, questioning wasn’t pursued on the subject. Guess no one suspected him of cheating. Hard to believe it was overlooked, to my way of thinking.

Sydni had just suffered a miscarriage at six months’ pregnant—the day before the accident. After a little research, I found there was some debate on whether her loss was considered a late miscarriage or a stillbirth. Regardless, it’s an incomprehensible loss.

Wow. Poor woman. That’s a lot for a twenty-one-year-old to handle. I can’t imagine how traumatic it must’ve been. It explains why the case was labeled a suicide so quickly, perhaps jumping to conclusions. Obviously, she was upset. But upset does not automatically equal suicide.

The notes are lacking, simply stating that all of her family members agreed she was distraught. Again, seems to me that should’ve been a given. The case was closed, declaring her actions a suicide. Done deal.

I understand why she would’ve been crazy with emotion. However, the go-bag tells me she was thinking with surprising clarity, even after suffering a huge loss. It tells me something more happened. Something everyone overlooked.

I have several interviews lined up today. I’m determined to understand Sydni’s state of mind. Could my theory be correct? Or am I wishing the beautiful Sydni still graces this earth for personal reasons?

Inappropriate reasons. Things I’ve never let my thoughts entertain when it comes to an investigation.

One minute later I’m greeted in the foyer by a confident Mr. Cole Greer, already dressed in a black suit, his cologne nearly making my eyes water.

His handshake is extra firm, his eye contact direct, as he says, “Thank you so much for meeting with me today.”

I’m not quite sure how to respond since I’m the one who requested the meeting. “You bet.” I’m immediately reminded of a creature in the wild asserting his dominance. Not a lion stressing his power with a roar. No, more like a peacock showing off his tail feathers.

Hey, if he wants to be the alpha, I’ll let him think he is. Doesn’t really matter much to me. “Thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with me, Mr. Greer.” That’s supposed to be my opening line. I’m taking it.

“It’s no problem at all,” Greer responds. “May I take your jacket?” he asks, with the formality of a well-trained butler.

Oddly, it doesn’t come across as an offer to serve. It again strikes me as a claim for control, a desire to be in charge of the situation.

I decline. “No, thanks.” I’d been feeling a great deal of sympathy for this man. Unfortunately, that’s quickly being replaced by an immediate dislike. I can’t explain it. It’s not something I feel during an investigation very often.

“Of course. I like to ensure my guests are comfortable.”

“Appreciate it.” I’ve never cared for smooth-talking men. I always feel like they’re lying spin-doctors who should’ve gone into politics. I’m sure nerves are involved, so I won’t judge him too harshly.

Yet.

His confidence borders on arrogance. The upward tilt of his chin, the constant smirk playing around his lips imply, I know more than you know.

Doubt it. No, I know it. He hasn’t been told about the discovery of the go-bag. The police are keeping the news under wraps. Cole Greer believes this to be a routine final investigation before he rakes in the bucks.

“May I get you something to drink?” he asks, moving toward a built-in bar in one corner of his living room.

“I’m good,” I answer, but he hands me an ice water anyway. I accept the glass as though I asked for it.

Greer proceeds to pour himself a shot of whiskey. It’s nine in the morning. He downs it with a quick backward tilt of his head.

Nerves are definitely involved in his behavior. I take back my initial judgment, deciding to reserve my opinion for later. Perhaps he’s worried things won’t go his way. He stands to lose eight hundred thousand dollars, after all. I need to find a way to make him feel at ease.

“Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” Greer says as he downs one more shot of whiskey.

“You have a beautiful home.” His living room looks like a spread from Better Homes and Gardens. I take a seat on a hard gray tweed couch while he sits across from me on one of two white wingback chairs. I imagine they’re equally as uncomfortable as the couch. Between us is a square gray-and-white marble coffee table, an art deco contraption sitting in the center, nearly blocking our view of each other. The gray-and-white marble theme continues on the fireplace surround. I don’t think there’s a speck of dust in sight. The air conditioning switches on, almost silent, cooling the room to icy perfection.

Seems appropriate. I could describe the feeling in the room the same way. Stone cold.

“Thank you. I have an excellent designer. I can give you her number, if you’d like.”

“No need.” While Greer’s style could be described as modern-deco-bachelor , my place would be described as who-cares-bachelor . Mine is a decent home—clean and functional, cozy and comfortable. But I’ve never attempted to match…well, anything.

The ice in the glass of water Greer handed me bobs up and down, bumping against its clear walls like it wants to escape.

I feel the same. The beautifully sterile living room has got to be the most unwelcoming room I’ve ever seen. There’s not even a TV. I wonder if he ever uses this room other than to entertain guests. The comfort level suggests “Don’t stay long.”

“You’ve kept the house where you and Sydni used to live.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Holds a lot of memories.” There’s not a tinge of nostalgia in his voice.

“I’m sure it does.”

I take in his handsome features. I imagine women would easily describe him as a good-looking man. He reminds me of a walking, talking Ken doll with blinding white teeth, a head of perfectly styled blond hair, and blue eyes that jump off his face. Or maybe I’m thinking about the Barbie movie my sister forced me to see with her last year. I was the only man in the audience and it was the worst. Although my sister claims it was the best movie ever . It’s a debate I refuse to enter . Along with Greer’s manners, I suppose he could come across as charming in the right situation. If he was trying.

As he silently sits across from me, I find his expression overconfident and his stare bold. It’s not the first time I’ve interviewed someone who’s trying to intimidate me, and it won’t be the last. Interesting, though. Most people tend to go out of their way to charm my socks off, as though kindness will cause their case to be decided in their favor.

It appears Greer isn’t much interested in small talk, becoming my BFF, or being golfing buddies. I’d rather not discuss the weather or his art deco room, anyway. And I’m certainly not interested in hitting the putting greens.

I have a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to Mr. Cole Greer, and I still can’t quite explain why. Call it instinct. It’s not as if he’s the bad guy for demanding a life insurance payout after nearly seven years have gone by. The legalities say the money is his. What person in their right mind wouldn’t demand what’s rightfully theirs?

I mean, unless Sydni is still alive, and fraud is floating through the air. If that’s the case, I will find the truth.

The thing is, most people are upset over their loved one being declared legally dead. It’s a hope-killer moment, for sure.

On the other hand, it’s been many years. I’m sure he’s done with mourning and ready to move on.

Greer reminds me of a statue, his expression blank, as if no one’s home. It’s a stark difference from his smooth-talking ways when I first arrived.

His impeccable three-piece suit sends a clear message. I am important. I have important things to do today.

I hear him, loud and clear. “I won’t keep you long. You’re obviously on your way to work,” I begin.

“Actually, I’m working from home today.”

He works from home in a three-piece suit? Not in pajamas like the rest of the world? Or at least his favorite sweats? Maybe a suit on his top half and boxers on the bottom half for Zoom meetings?

Uptight is the next word that comes to mind to explain Cole Greer. My intent perusal causes him to brush nonexistent lint from his creased pants.

I look down at my notes. Educated at Harvard. He’s an engineer, highly successful in his field. Earns a decent living. Born and raised in Boston. Parents are deceased. No siblings.

Only children are sometimes considered to be spoiled and self-centered. Bossy, independent, never asking for help. I haven’t found this to be true in general. As for my first impression of Greer, he ticks all the boxes.

I can see why Sydni fell for him, though. What’s not to like? My eyes snap upward, meeting his.

Cole Greer is perfect on paper. Not so much in real life. He doesn’t need an air conditioner. He could cool the room with his personality alone. But then, I’m persona non grata, the one who has the power to determine his financial future. It’s obvious he doesn’t like anyone to have power over him, perhaps dislikes authority figures. Does he suffer from oppositional defiant disorder? Maybe.

I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear my mind as well. “Do you understand why I’m here today?”

“Of course. The insurance company must ensure I’m worthy of receiving my money that they’ve withheld from me for seven years.” His eyebrows reach the middle of his forehead. “But I’m not bitter at all.” His sarcasm is not lost on me.

Okay, that explains his attitude. “I understand how you must feel. Before issuing a disbursement, an investigation is routinely performed to prevent insurance fraud.” Especially when foul play is suspected. It wasn’t in the beginning, but it’s certainly suspected now.

“Of course.” It’s obvious he believes nothing will stand in his way.

Boy, does he have a surprise coming. Wish I could see his face when he learns of the go-bag. “I’d like to ask you a series of questions, if that’s all right.”

“I’ve never once refused to provide the authorities with the truth.” His tone of voice is even, with not one inflection. Like he’s a programmed robot.

My notes do say he’s been cooperative. Eight hundred grand and accommodating tend to go hand in hand. Best friends, even.

Greer continues. “It’s been seven years. Sydni will soon be declared legally dead, and I can finally put this nightmare behind me and move on with my life.”

“I see you never petitioned the court and tried to have her declared legally dead sooner.” I watch his expression closely. No change.

“What would be the point? Without a body as proof, it would be like banging my head against a brick wall.”

I don’t comment.

“Frankly,” Greer adds, “it’s criminal they haven’t paid out yet. Do you know how much her funeral cost? It’s highway robbery.”

I know a simple graveside service was held with an empty coffin and a postage stamp of a headstone. If we’re talking criminal, his remembrance of his wife is exactly that. “In a case like this, it’s standard procedure.”

“I understand.” Cole crosses his legs and clasps his hands over one knee. No other part of him moves, not even his eyes as he stares me down.

I don’t trust a man who crosses his legs. Never have. Never will.

“So you don’t believe there’s a possibility Sydni could still be alive?” I ask.

“I can’t stress this enough. She was beside herself, out of control. Blind with grief. I’ll be blunt here. Suicide was obvious. Besides, we’re at the seven-year mark. If she was still alive, someone would’ve heard from her or seen her by now. I think seven years is a sufficient amount of time for the police to do their job.” There’s a low blow politely hidden in Greer’s words.

Okay. Time to get down to it. “What were you doing on the day of the accident?”

“I worked late that night.”

“Do you often work late?”

“Not usually. I took the morning off because Syd was coming home from the hospital.”

Syd. Hmm. Cute. “Why was Sydni in the hospital?” I ask.

Cole’s still not moving. No smoothing of his hair, scratching an itch, or wiping away nervous beads of sweat from his upper lip.

“Don’t you already know all of this? I’ve answered these questions already.”

“I do. I’d like to hear your version of the events from your mouth, not from the prior interviewer’s perspective.”

I’m known for making people feel comfortable. I’m told I have a nonthreatening manner. I never maintain direct eye contact for long during an interview. And I always keep my voice even- toned. I’m a master at hiding any and all emotion. Ry used to laugh and say, “You get people to sing like a bird.”

Greer sits up a little taller. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Flattery will get me everywhere. Let’s see if I can get him to start humming at least. “Why was Sydni in the hospital?” I repeat.

“She miscarried that baby in the middle of the night. Blood everywhere. It was like a crime scene. Had to rush her to the hospital at around…two a.m. A wicked hour.” Greer’s tone implies it was a great inconvenience.

I do believe I hear music. Singing soon to follow. “ That baby?” I emphasize that .

“ Our baby,” Greer corrects immediately.

Better. “How far along was she?”

“Only six months.”

I pause, thinking of my sister when she was six months along. She already had the nursery decorated and a closet full of tiny clothes. Her belly was noticeably round. “Only?”

“I mean, six months is still early. It’s not even a real person yet,” Cole comments. “It’s just a blob. You understand what I’m saying, of course.”

My face remains blank while anger flashes through me from head to toe. My two-year-old nephew was very real to all of us at six months. He moved, he kicked—bursting with life. Just as real as he is now. What is Greer saying? The womb is a holding place for a blob? Once born, it miraculously turns human?

“Was she an early six months or a late six months?” I ask.

“A late six months would be seven months.”

I don’t appreciate his sarcasm. I remain quiet, waiting for an answer to my question.

“Late. She’d just hit the six-and-a-half-month mark.”

Wow. That’s rough. An ache in my chest makes me look down at my notes for a moment to compose myself. “Was Sydni upset?” As it leaves my lips, it feels like the dumbest question ever uttered. It’s something I need to hear him answer, though.

“Oh yeah. She was crying and blubbering all over the place. They had to sedate her to get her to calm down.”

Devastated. She was devastated. My heart breaks for her. “But you were there for her?”

“Yeah.” Greer nods. “I sat by her side and held her hand. Told her it wasn’t the end of the world. It was better to wait for a more convenient time, anyway.”

Whoa. Way to be thoughtless.

“What I meant was, she was young. There’d be plenty of time for other children.” Cole corrects himself as though he just realized how he sounded.

I clear my throat. “Were you upset?”

“Me?” He seems shocked that I asked about his feelings. “To be honest, Mr. Garrett…”

“Elijah.”

“Elijah.” He doesn’t ask me to call him Cole. “It wasn’t good timing for a baby. Sydni was eight years younger than me. We married when she’d just turned twenty. We’d only been married a year when she found out she was pregnant. It was too soon. She’s an amazing artist and had a budding career ahead of her.” He gestures to the right of the couch toward some framed artwork. “That’s some of her work. She was very talented. Up and coming. After her death, her work sold for escalated prices. I can’t bring myself to part with those. Some of my favorites.”