THE FALL
Rachel Whitmore did not scream when she went over the balcony.
That was the part everyone remembered later.
She gasped.
A small, broken sound slipped out of her throat as her bare feet slid across the polished marble edge of the second-floor landing. One hand clutched the railing. The other pressed against her pregnant belly through the white satin robe she had worn because Margaret said family breakfast was “not optional.”
A white sleeve flashed near her face.
Rachel recoiled.
Her shoulder hit the black wrought-iron railing.
For one frozen second, the whole mansion held its breath.
Then her body tipped backward into empty air.
Below her, the cream marble hallway stretched wide and bright beneath the crystal chandelier. Family members on the balcony froze with their hands half-raised, too late to help, too scared to move.
From the far end of the hallway, David Whitmore came running.
He was still in his dark navy suit from an early board meeting, bald head shining under the chandelier, jaw locked with terror.
“Rachel!”
He dropped to one knee and slid across the marble.
Rachel fell into his arms before she hit the floor.
The impact knocked the breath from him, but he held her tight.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, shaking.
Rachel sobbed into his jacket.
Then David looked up.
May you like
Margaret stood above them near the railing, one hand still raised, her face white with fear.
And just above the chandelier, a small black security camera blinked.
