The Widow's Truth - Love. Lies. Revenge.

Catherine Bennett had been a wife for seven days.

A widow for less than twenty-four hours.

She stood at the top of the grand staircase of the Ashford Estate, staring down at the sea of people dressed in black.

She recognized almost none of them.

Businessmen. Politicians. Lawyers. Family friends. People whose names Liam had mentioned casually during their short marriage, as though Catherine would have years to learn who everyone was.

Years.

The word almost made her laugh.

Or scream.

Yesterday evening, she had been standing in front of the mirror in their little house, smoothing down the red dress Liam loved.

"You look dangerous in red," he had once whispered against her ear.

She had laughed then.

Yesterday, she had chosen it deliberately.

Dinner reservations waited downtown. A tiny white gift box sat inside her handbag. Inside it was a pair of miniature baby socks.

Catherine had discovered the pregnancy the previous morning.

Four weeks.

She had stared at the test until her hands started shaking.

Then she had cried.

Then laughed.

Then cried again.

Liam Ashford was going to be a father.

She had spent the entire day imagining his reaction.

He would probably lift her into the air. He would almost certainly cry and deny crying immediately afterwards.

"Something got in my eye, Cath."

She could practically hear him.

At 7:46 that evening, her phone had rung.

Liam never came home.

The police said his car had left the road on Blackwood Ridge.

The impact killed him instantly.

By the time Catherine reached the hospital, Liam's family was already there.

And before she could properly understand what was happening, his body had been removed.

"No post-mortem," Liam's father had said.

Richard Ashford hadn't yelled.

He hadn't needed to.

Everything about that family happened quietly.

Decisively.

Permanently.

"It is our family tradition."

Catherine had been too shattered to argue.

Now Liam lay inside a polished mahogany coffin beneath the enormous chandelier of Ashford Hall.

Her twenty-seven-year-old husband.

Her best friend.

The father of the child nobody knew existed.

Catherine gripped the banister.

Her wedding ring suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

"Catherine."

She turned.

Margaret Ashford stood behind her.

Liam's mother looked immaculate in a tailored black dress, as though grief itself had been ordered not to wrinkle her clothes.

"You should come downstairs."

Catherine wiped her face.

"I need a minute."

Margaret studied Catherine for several seconds.

For once, something almost gentle entered her expression.

"Of course."

She placed a hand briefly on Catherine's shoulder before turning towards the staircase.

"Come down when you're ready."

Catherine nodded.

Margaret descended, her black dress disappearing into the crowd below.

Catherine remained where she was.

Alone.

From the top of the sweeping staircase, she could see almost the entire entrance hall.

And she could see Liam.

His coffin rested in the centre of the room.

She hated the flowers surrounding it.

White roses.

Hundreds of them.

Who had decided Liam should have white roses?

He hated roses.

He had once bought her a bunch of wildflowers from a roadside stall and announced proudly that expensive flowers were "a conspiracy against husbands".

The memory struck without warning.

Catherine gripped the banister.

Don't cry.

She had cried enough that her eyes burned.

Her gaze moved back to the coffin.

This wasn't supposed to be happening.

Yesterday she had been worrying about how to tell her husband that she was carrying his child.

Now she was wondering how she would raise that child without him.

Her palm moved instinctively towards her stomach.

"Our baby," she whispered.

She couldn't even feel anything yet.

Four weeks pregnant.

Barely the beginning of a life.

But it was Liam's.

Something of him remained.

Her phone chimed.

Catherine barely noticed.

Messages had been arriving constantly since the news spread.

I'm so sorry.

Call me if you need anything.

Thinking about you.

Praying for you.

Words from people who meant well but had no idea what to say.

The phone chimed again.

Catherine pulled it from her handbag.

She glanced at the screen.

And stopped breathing.

LIAM.

For several seconds, her mind simply refused to understand what she was seeing.

Her husband's name.

On her screen.

A new message.

Her thumb trembled as she opened it.

The message was short.

Do not trust anyone.

Catherine stared at the words.

Another message arrived.

Let the funeral happen. Don't ask questions. Leave immediately afterwards.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Then another.

Run as far as you can.

Catherine's fingers went cold.

"No..."

She looked downstairs.

Liam hadn't moved.

Of course he hadn't moved.

He was dead.

She had seen him.

Her phone vibrated again.

This time, the message made the blood drain from her face.

Do not tell anyone about the pregnancy.

Catherine nearly dropped the phone.

She caught it against her chest.

Nobody knew.

Nobody.

She had found out yesterday.

She hadn't told her mother. She hadn't told her closest friend. She hadn't even had the chance to tell Liam.

The surprise box containing the tiny baby socks was still in her handbag.

How could anyone know?

Another message appeared.

Keep yourself safe.

Catherine stared at the screen.

Her breathing became shallow.

Then she typed.

Liam?

She waited.

Nothing.

She typed again.

Who is this?

No response.

How do you know I'm pregnant?

Nothing.

She called the number.

The call ended instantly.

Catherine tried again.

Same result.

Her hands began shaking.

But this time it wasn't grief.

Someone knew her secret.

Someone knew something only she should have known.

And that someone wanted her to run.