Chapter 8 - The Letter That Looked Like an Affair
I almost didn't read past the first line.
I can't keep doing this behind Nicole's back.
That sentence had only one obvious meaning.
At least to a woman whose fiancé and sister had spent ten days secretly meeting while she lay in an ICU.
I looked at Detective Hale.
“Were they sleeping together?”
He didn't answer.
“Just tell me.”
“We don't know.”
Patricia sat in the back of a patrol car outside while officers determined whether I wanted to pursue the break-in.
I barely cared.
I unfolded the next page.
Kayla's handwriting became shakier.
You said this would help fix everything, but every time I take money for you, I owe you more. Nicole thinks you're helping me because you're family. She has no idea the money is hers.
Not an affair.
Something stranger.
The letter continued.
Kayla had discovered the truth about the money weeks before the accident.
She realized Brandon had been taking funds from my accounts and routing them through hers.
When she confronted him, he threatened to report her as the thief.
Technically, several accounts were in her name.
Several transfers originated from devices connected to her address.
Brandon had built a trap.
If she exposed him, the paper trail made her look guilty.
You said once you and Nicole were married, you'd control enough money to make the accounts whole.
Then:
I'm done helping you.
And finally:
If you don't tell Nicole, I will.
The date was July nineteenth.
Six weeks before my accident.
I looked at Hale.
“She was going to tell me.”
“According to the letter.”
“Why didn't she?”
That question stayed unanswered until Kayla testified in a sealed pretrial hearing.
She admitted Brandon had threatened her.
Not physically.
Financially.
He said if she spoke, he would send evidence to police showing her involvement.
She got scared.
So she stayed silent.
Then she made the worst possible choice.
She continued accepting his instructions.
That didn't absolve her.
Even she said so.
But it changed how I understood the chain of events.
Brandon didn't simply exploit a reckless decision after my accident.
He had been controlling Kayla long before it.
The prosecution now believed the September third collision might have served two purposes for him.
If I died, he could pursue insurance benefits and possibly gain access to assets using forged documents.
If I survived but couldn't remember, he could blame Kayla for the crash while continuing his financial scheme.
Either way, he had positioned himself to benefit.
But had he deliberately arranged the collision?
That remained harder to prove.
The trial began six weeks later.
By then, I could walk without holding my ribs.
The physical pain had faded into soreness.
The emotional pain had become something else.
Focus.
I entered the courthouse through a side entrance.
Outside, reporters filled the sidewalk.
Inside, Brandon sat beside his attorneys.
He looked polished.
Dark suit.
Clean shave.
Calm.
The sight angered me more than if he had looked broken.
For months, photographs online had shown him in hoodies, handcuffs, courthouse hallways.
Now he looked like the man who used to take me to dinner.
The man I had almost married.
He turned.
Our eyes met.
He smiled.
A tiny smile.
Like we shared a private joke.
I looked away.
The prosecution opened with the collision.
Then the ICU.
Then the financial records.
Then the safe.
Then the forged documents.
Jurors saw photographs of Brandon kneeling beside my lockbox with a crowbar.
Officer body-camera footage captured him saying:
“This looks worse than it is.”
One juror actually raised her eyebrows.
Kayla testified on day four.
Seeing her on the stand was harder than I expected.
She looked older.
She described drinking.
Driving.
The impact.
Calling Brandon.
Leaving me in the road.
She cried.
The prosecutor didn't rescue her from the ugliness.
“You could have stopped.”
“Yes.”
“You could have called 911.”
“Yes.”
“You could have confessed that night.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
Then came the phone recording.
Her voice filled the courtroom.
“I hit somebody.”
Brandon:
“Don't stop.”
I watched the jurors.
One woman covered her mouth.
When the recording reached the part where Brandon asked whether the victim wore a gray coat, Brandon stopped taking notes.
His attorney stared straight ahead.
Then Kayla said something nobody expected.
The prosecutor asked:
“Why did you ultimately agree to help Mr. Pierce access Nicole's lockbox?”
Kayla swallowed.
“Because he told me Nicole was going to die anyway.”
The courtroom went silent.
My heartbeat slammed against my chest.
The prosecutor stepped closer.
“When?”
“The night of the crash.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Kayla looked at me.
Then at the jury.
“He said the doctors didn't know if she would make it through the night. He said if she died, we needed to clean everything up before her mother started asking questions.”
Brandon shook his head.
His lawyer immediately objected.
The judge overruled.
The prosecutor continued.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I couldn't.”
“And Mr. Pierce?”
“He said, ‘Then enjoy prison.’”
I closed my eyes.
That was why Kayla helped him.
Not because she loved him.
Not because they were secretly together.
Because they were two guilty people, and Brandon had decided only one of them would control how the guilt was distributed.
But the most shocking testimony came the following morning.
Rachel took the stand.
She described Brandon's promise that everything would change Thursday.
Then the prosecutor played one of Brandon's voice notes.
“After Thursday, I won't have to worry about Nicole anymore.”
Brandon's defense attorney argued that it referred to a planned conversation about separating.
Then the prosecutor asked Rachel:
“Did the defendant ever say he planned to leave Nicole?”
Rachel hesitated.
“No.”
“What did he say?”
Rachel looked toward Brandon.
“He said Nicole was worth more dead than divorced.”
The entire courtroom seemed to inhale at once.
May you like
And for the first time since the trial began, Brandon's calm expression disappeared.
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