Final Vow, page 13
I pull my lips to the side, mulling this over. “How long had she been with her fiancé?”
“Three years. They got engaged about eight months ago.”
I chew my lip. “Any connection to Nightfall?”
Wilder starts to shake his head, then stops. “Actually, I think that’s where their wedding venue was.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Which venue?”
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his notes. “Whitmore House.”
The air in the room shifts. Hanks goes still beside me.
There’s something here.
“That’s where Samantha Winters was murdered,” I say.
Wilder’s eyes meet mine, and I see the same unease I’m feeling reflected back at me. “Interesting.”
I turn to Hanks. “Two brides murdered. Same venue.”
He exhales slowly. “Likely a coincidence.”
“Could be.” But my gut is telling me otherwise. That prickling sensation that says something’s not right here.
Hanks pushes to his feet, his expression thoughtful. “If there’s a connection, it means the guy we’ve got in custody isn’t our killer.”
The thought makes my stomach turn. If someone is targeting brides at Whitmore House…
“Grayson was at the scene,” Hanks says, as if reading my thoughts. “He has a history of harassing the victim. He had a damn shrine in his basement.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing.”
But Hanks is studying me now, that look he gets when he’s weighing something. After a moment, he nods.
“Tell you what. Let’s head back to the venue. Talk to the coordinator again, see if we can get any information about Melody Mathers that might connect to our case.” He shrugs his tweed-clad shoulders. “If there’s a connection, maybe we find it. Or maybe we just rule it out.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’re probably chasing shadows.” He glances at Wilder. “We’ll pass along anything useful.”
Wilder nods, gratitude softening the tired lines of his face. “I appreciate it. I’m stretched thin on this one—any help is welcome.”
Hanks gathers his things and heads for the door, then pauses at the threshold. “I’ll go pull the car around. Meet you out front, kid.” He glances between me and Wilder, a knowing glint in his eye. “Take your time.”
Then he’s gone, and it’s just Wilder, Shadow, and me in the empty conference room.
Wilder stands, closing the distance between us. This close, I can see just how tired he really is—the slight redness in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.
“You look exhausted,” I say softly.
“I am.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I’ll survive. I just wish I had more time to spend with you.”
“Go. Work your case.” I nudge his arm. “We’ll follow up on the venue connection.”
His gaze searches my face. “Trust your gut, Eden. If something feels off to you, there’s usually a reason.”
Before I can respond, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. Warmth spreads through me.
Shadow’s tail wags against my leg, and I laugh quietly as we break apart.
Wilder squeezes my hand once, then lets go. “Be careful out there.”
“You too.”
CHAPTER 20
The iron gates of Whitmore House swing open, and Hanks guides the sedan up the gravel drive. It’s strange being back here. The manicured grounds look the same—the stone fountain burbling away, the ivy climbing the Victorian facade—but there’s a heaviness to the place now. Maybe it’s the lack of people. The quiet stillness that’s the aftermath of the murder.
Hanks parks near the front entrance, and we climb out into the midmorning sun. The warmth feels too cheerful for a place where a woman was strangled in her wedding dress just two days ago.
A man in dirt-stained khakis and a canvas hat kneels beside a flower bed under one of the windows. He squints up at us as we approach, pruning shears in hand.
“Help you folks?”
Hanks flashes his badge. “Looking for Martha Glennis.”
The gardener gestures toward the mansion’s front doors with his shears. “Inside. Upstairs, I think.”
We thank him and head in. The grand foyer stretches before us, the crystal chandelier catching light from the arched window on the landing. A massive vase of fresh flowers sits on the circular table in the center—white lilies and roses, their sweet scent heavy in the air.
Shadow’s nails click against the polished wood as we cross toward the curved staircase. His ears swivel, tracking sounds I can’t hear yet.
Then I catch it too. Voices drifting down from above. Tense, harried.
We climb the stairs, Shadow padding between us. At the top, a few people cluster in the hallway—Martha Glennis and two younger women, one blond, one brunette, both in professional attire with tablets clutched to their chests.
Yellow crime scene tape still stretches across the doorway at the far end of the hall. The bridal suite. My stomach tightens at the sight of it.
“…need to reschedule the Hoffman rehearsal dinner,” Martha is saying, her voice strained. “And someone needs to call the florist about the Morrison wedding. We can’t have them showing up and—”
She breaks off as she notices us. For a moment, she just stares. Then she says something quietly to her assistants, and they step back, hovering near the wall with their tablets.
Martha hurries toward us in a cream-colored skirt suit, her graying blond hair curled around her shoulders. “Hello again.” She takes a shallow breath. “Have you determined what happened to Ms. Winters?” A glance back at her assistants, then quieter: “I mean, who did that to her?” She fiddles with a gold brooch on her lapel.
“Working on it,” Hanks says. “Actually, we wanted to ask you about another bride of yours. Melody Mathers.”
Martha’s brow furrows. “Oh. Yes.” She tilts her head, thinking. “I believe she’s getting married here in early October? It’s actually often a lovely time of year here on the coast. Good time for a wedding. Misses the crowds and the highest prices.” A small, practiced smile crosses her face before fading. “Why do you ask?”
Hanks and I exchange a look. This is the part I’ve been dreading.
“Unfortunately,” I say, keeping my voice gentle, “she was killed last night.”
The color drains from Martha’s face. She reaches out blindly, finding the polished banister that overlooks the foyer below.
“Oh dear.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Ms. Glennis,” I say, “do you know if Melody and Samantha had any connection to each other? Anything besides both getting married here?”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, like she can’t quite catch her breath. “Oh dear. Both getting married here.”
She repeats it like she’s trying to process the words. Hanks shoots me a sideways glance. Martha’s taking this harder than I expected.
I lick my lips and try a different approach. “Also…” I pull out my phone and swipe to a photo of Grayson Taylor—a screenshot from his social media that clearly shows his face. I hold it up for Martha to see. “Do you recognize this man?”
She blinks at the screen, still gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. “Um… no.” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t say that I do.”
“He snuck in here on the day of the murder,” Hanks says, his gravelly voice flat. “Confronted Samantha in the bridal suite.”
Martha sways slightly, and she murmurs something I can’t quite make out. Shadow takes a step closer to her, ears pricked forward, watching her with that intense focus he gets when he’s concerned about someone.
“Did you see him that day?” Hanks presses.
“What?” Martha’s eyes are glassy, unfocused. “No. I… He snuck into our venue and murdered that young woman?” Her hand moves to her chest, fingers splayed over her heart. “My God.” Her gaze darts between me and Hanks, something calculating flickering behind the shock. “Is this public knowledge? Does the press know about this connection to Whitmore House?”
Hanks frowns. “Why?”
Martha’s face crumples. “They’re going to destroy me on Bride Boards.”
I stare at her. “On what?”
Before Martha can answer, the blond assistant rushes forward and takes her arm, steadying her. “It’s an online forum,” she explains, her voice quick and efficient. “For brides and brides-to-be. Recently married women too. There’s a Northern Oregon Coast chapter.” She winces. “Word spreads fast there.”
Martha makes a small, pained sound.
The brunette assistant has pulled out her phone and is scrolling rapidly. “They’re already blasting our venue. Calling it a crime scene.” She grimaces. “And they don’t even know all the details yet.”
A door slams somewhere below us. Footsteps pound across the foyer, and a male voice calls up the stairwell. “Ms. Glennis?”
We all move to the banister and look down. A trim young man in a dark suit stands beside the flowers, holding up a phone, his face flushed.
“We’re getting a lot of calls,” he says, slightly breathless. “Cancellations. Due to the…” He hesitates, glancing at us. “The incident.”
Martha squares her shoulders, her voice thin but determined. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
We check that neither of the assistants recognize Grayson and then finish up our questioning.
Martha nods. “Very well. Excuse me, I have to go do damage control.”
She pulls away from the blond assistant and hurries toward the stairs, her heels clicking a rapid staccato against the wood. The two assistants exchange a worried look and follow, leaving Hanks and me alone in the upstairs hallway with Shadow.
“Well,” Hanks says dryly, “that went well.”
Poor Martha. The woman seems insanely stressed. But she’s given me an idea.
I pull up my phone’s browser and search for Bride Boards. The site loads quickly—a clean interface with a banner of wedding bells and intertwined rings. I navigate to the forum section and find a drop-down menu of regional chapters.
Scrolling to the Northern Oregon Coast one, I open it and start reading through the posts. Most are venue recommendations, photographer reviews, debates about seating chart etiquette. But near the top, several threads are marked with angry red icons.
WHITMORE HOUSE - MURDER AT WEDDING???
I skim the comments. Speculation, mostly. Someone’s cousin’s friend was at the wedding. Someone else heard it on the news. A few people defending the venue, more piling on.
But that’s not what I’m looking for.
“You finding something, kid?” Hanks asks.
I frown. “Maybe. Give me just a sec.”
I go back to the main forum and start skimming differently. Not hunting for the murder threads, but for older posts. The kind brides make when they’re excited about their upcoming weddings and want to share details with strangers on the internet.
It takes me a few minutes of scrolling, but I find it. A thread from three months ago titled “Whitmore House—preferred vendor recs.”
My pulse quickens as I scan the comments. There, near the top, is a username with a little heart icon beside it: MelodyMathers_FutureMrsH.
So excited to have found this thread! Getting married October 5 and would love to connect with other Whitmore brides!
This has to be Wilder’s victim.
I keep scrolling. More comments, more usernames, more brides sharing their wedding dates and color schemes and vendor recommendations. And then, halfway down the page:
SamanthaSoonToBeGrant.
July bride here! Can’t wait to see this beautiful venue in the summer. Has anyone done a tasting with their caterer yet?
“Shit,” I breathe.
Hanks leans over my shoulder. “What?”
“They might’ve interacted here.” I show him the screen, pointing to both usernames. “Sam and Melody. It’s got to be them, right? Both posted in the same thread.”
Hanks crosses his arms. “It’s a good find, kid. Could be coincidence, though—lots of brides pass through that forum.”
“But it’s worth looking into, don’t you think? What if they knew each other?”
He grunts.
I’ll need more time to comb through it properly. More time and probably a bigger screen.
“We should let Wilder know,” I say.
“Yep.” Hanks jerks his head toward the stairs. “Let’s get back to the station.”
CHAPTER 21
The ocean glitters under the midday sun as Hanks guides the sedan south on the 101. It’s one of those perfect days on the coast—warm, blue sky, not too windy.
Shadow has his head out the back window, ears flapping. His tail wags in a steady rhythm against the seat.
I pull out my phone and dial Wilder, putting it on speaker. Shadow huffs when I roll up the window, cutting off his wind tunnel.
“Sorry, buddy. Need to make a call.”
He gives me a look that says he’s deeply offended but will forgive me eventually.
Wilder picks up on the second ring. “Hey. How’d it go at Whitmore House?”
“Interesting.” I glance at Hanks, who’s focused on the road but clearly listening. “The coordinator mentioned an online forum called Bride Boards. I did a quick search and found a thread where both Samantha and Melody commented.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “They knew each other?”
“Can’t say for certain yet. But they definitely had the opportunity to interact. We’re heading back to the station now to dig deeper.”
I hear papers shuffling in the background. “I’ll ask her fiancé about the forum. Her parents and friends too. See if anyone knew about a connection to Samantha.”
“Thanks. We’ll keep you updated on what we find.”
“Same here.” His voice warms slightly. “Be careful, okay?”
“Always am.”
Hanks snorts beside me.
“Talk soon.” I hang up and catch Hanks’s smirk in my peripheral vision. “What?”
“You get yourself into more trouble than I know.” But the smirk doesn’t fade.
I roll my eyes and lower the window for Shadow. He immediately pokes his head back out, tongue lolling.
The station is quiet when we arrive—Monday lunch hour, most of the day shift out on patrol. Linda waves from the front desk as we pass and head toward Hanks’s office.
The leather couch creaks as Shadow jumps up and circles twice before flopping down in his usual spot. He lets out a contented sigh and tucks his nose under his tail. I sign Samantha’s phone out of the evidence locker and settle back onto the couch beside Shadow.
Hanks pulls up Bride Boards on his computer, angling the monitor so I can see from my perch on the couch.
“Let’s start with Melody,” he says, navigating to the Northern Oregon Coast forum.
He types “MelodyMathers_FutureMrsH” into the search bar, and a list of posts populates. Most are what you’d expect. Questions about photographers. Excitement about her October wedding date. A debate about whether to do a first look or wait until the ceremony.
I lean forward, scanning the threads. “Normal bride stuff.”
Hanks grunts in agreement, scrolling through.
While he searches, I open Samantha’s phone and am relieved to find she’s still logged into the Bride Boards app. I go to her comments and find similarly mundane content. Ideas for centerpieces. Commiserating about the nightmare of seating charts. Sharing photos of her engagement ring with the enthusiasm of someone who didn’t know she’d never wear a wedding band.
My chest tightens. I push the feeling aside and focus.
Her private messages are more interesting. “Got something.”
Hanks rolls his chair closer as I angle the screen toward him. There’s an exchange between Samantha and a user called WhiteWedding1994.
Hi, girlie! I saw your comment. Jennie’s currently planning my wedding, which is in three months, and now I’m worried. :/ She’s been okay so far… a little snippy at times but mostly good. Should I be scared? Were you able to get a refund?
WhiteWedding1994’s response:
No refund. Debating if we’re going to take her to small claims, but not sure it’s worth it. She started fine with me, too, but a few weeks ago totally changed—became snarky, cried over nothing, missed some meetings, and none of my other vendors could get ahold of her. Heard a rumor that her fiancé broke things off. Obv hard, but she’s taking it out on us! Ugh. Good luck… doubt you’ll get a refund at this point. Hopefully she gets over it and does her job.
Samantha’s reply was brief. What else am I gonna do at this point? I’ll stick with her unless it gets really bad.
The name rings a bell. “Jennie Diaz?” I say slowly. “The wedding planner?”
Hanks rubs his chin. “Maryanne said Samantha was a bridezilla.”
“You believe her?”
He shrugs. “Take it with a grain of salt. But if there’s any truth to it, and this Jennie was already struggling after a breakup…” He trails off, letting me fill in the blanks.
“Wedding day stress could have pushed her over the edge,” I finish. “Samantha gets demanding, Jennie snaps.” I frown. “It’s a stretch.”
Hanks scoffs. “Hell of an escalation from being snippy to strangling someone.”
I nod my acknowledgment but can’t entirely dismiss it. “People snap, though.”
Hanks jots down a note. “Let’s follow up on it.”
I nod and turn back to the laptop, searching for the original post where WhiteWedding1994 vented about Diaz Event Planning. I find it buried in a thread about vendors to avoid. The comments section is active—other brides sharing their own horror stories about florists, caterers, DJs.
