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When I looked up and confirmed that the blue recording light was still blinking steadily beneath my wet coat, the terror vanished from Mara’s face, instantly replaced by a cold, predatory fury.
Mara wanted to call the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the district attorney immediately, but I gripped her arm firmly and stopped her.
Richard believed the ocean had swallowed his wife and his unborn child whole, and for the first time in our marriage, his absolute, arrogant certainty could be turned into a lethal trap against him.
By sunset, Richard landed his rented helicopter in Los Angeles and immediately began performing the tragic role of a shattered, heartbroken husband.
He wept before news cameras, telling investigators that I had stepped too close to the open door to capture a better photograph of the coastline, that a sudden gust of wind caught my loose coat, and that he had lunged for me but simply failed to catch my hand in time.
He expected billions of dollars, majority board seats, luxury real estate, and full ownership of the patents my father had spent thirty years developing.
If Richard reached for my fortune now, he would personally trigger a mandatory
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