The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 196

196 /422

Kyle's POV

Three weeks in Paris, and I was no closer to exonerating my father than when I'd arrived.

If anything, I'd only uncovered more sins.

The file on my desk contained photographs, financial records, Morton's call interrupted my thoughts.

"Morton," I answered, my voice rough from lack of sleep.

"Kyle," he replied. "There's been a development. Richard Williams is dead."

I moved away from the window, alert. "How?"

"Officially? Suicide. He was found hanging in his cell early this morning."

"And unofficially?"

Morton's slight hesitation told me everything I needed to know. "The timing is... concerning. Especially given certain conversations he had recently."

"With whom?" I demanded, though I already suspected the answer.

"Mia. He requested to meet with her several days ago."

My hand tightened around the phone. "What did he want?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Morton admitted. "But according to Scarlett, it had something to do with Diana Porter."

"Did he tell her anything specific?"

"If he did, she hasn't shared it with us. But she's convinced his death wasn't suicide."

I ran a hand through my hair, processing this new complication. "Is she safe?"

"For now. Scarlett and I are with her. Her mother as well."

I wanted to ask more. How was she feeling? Was she taking care of herself? Did she mention me at all? But pride held my tongue.

"I'll inform our contact at the Justice Department," I said instead. "Have them look into Williams' death."

"Already done," Morton replied. "There's one more thing."

I waited, sensing his reluctance.

"Mia had a message for you," he said finally. "If you want to know anything about her, you should, and I quote, 'come and ask her directly.'"

Something twisted in my chest. "Is that all?"

"She also said to tell you to 'stop being a coward.'"

A coward. Is that she thought what I'd become?

"Kyle?" Morton prompted when I didn't respond.

"I'll call you back," I said abruptly, ending the call before he could respond.

I stared at the scattered documents on the hotel desk, the investigation that had consumed me these past weeks. I reached for my jacket. There was someone in Paris I needed to see—a retired detective who'd been surprisingly difficult to track down. My team had finally located him in a small apartment in Montmartre, living under a different name. The man who had investigated Diana Porter's death and ruled it an accident despite, as I'd recently learned, substantial evidence to the contrary.

The apartment building was unassuming, a narrow structure wedged between a bakery and a small art gallery. I pulled my collar up against the rain and approached the security panel, pressing the button for apartment 3B.

After a long moment, a gruff voice answered in French.

"Monsieur Dubois," I replied in the same language. "My name is Kyle Branson. I'd like to speak with you about Diana Porter."

Silence. Then the buzzer sounded, granting me entry.

The stairwell was narrow and dimly lit, the green paint peeling in places to reveal layers of previous colors beneath. My footsteps echoed as I climbed to the third floor, where a man waited in an open doorway, watching my approach with wary eyes.

Henri Dubois—formerly Detective Henri Marchand of the Adirondack County Sheriff's Department—had aged considerably from the photographs I'd seen. His hair had thinned and whitened, his face mapped with deep lines, his posture slightly stooped. But his eyes remained sharp, assessing me with the practiced gaze of a career law enforcement officer.

"You look like him," he said in accented English, making no move to invite me inside. "Alexander. Same eyes."