Interlude 2: World Falling Down 

Author's Note

Hi gang,

I’m working on revisions of book one for publication and added a couple of side stories. This one takes place right after the chapter One Last Thing To Do …, where John “loots” his wife’s parents.

I’m not uploading it to RR or SH—it will only be in the book—but I thought you might like to read it if you’re interested. It’s out of sequence and drops you back into the past, so if you’d rather not rewind that far, feel free to skip it.

It's an extra, not a replacement for tomorrow’s chapter.

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Malcolm Langford woke up slowly. He stretched languidly, yawned, and scratched his neck. Last night had been a good night. The charity dinner had been interesting. The food was good, the alcohol wasn’t bad, and he’d spoken with two women interested in plastic surgery. With their husbands’ income, his prices wouldn’t be a deterrent. He even had sex with his wife afterward—something rare enough these days that he mentally congratulated himself. Something tugged at the edges of his mind, a discomfort like a pebble in his shoe. It spoiled the perfect morning. It took him a few minutes to realize what it was.

He bolted upright in bed. “The donation,” he shouted.

Rachel stirred beside him, mumbling and pulling the comforter higher over her shoulder.

Malcolm slid out of bed, ignoring the stiffness in his knees, and walked down to his office, heart pounding. Sitting at the computer, he moved the mouse, and the screen lit up. He opened his banking app. The last transaction showed a transfer of $1,987,042.56. His checking account balance was $0.

A donation confirmation email sat at the top of his inbox.

Thank you for your generous gift to the National Cancer Research Foundation. A donation of $1,987,042.56 has been received in honor of Sophia Annalina Langford-Rue.

His hand clutched the mouse almost breaking it, and shook his head, trying to get rid of the horrible images. “No. No, no, no, no," he kept saying. Then he shouted, “Rachel!”

A thud came from the bedroom above.

“Rachel!"

Another few thuds.

He was losing his patience. "Rachel! Come down this minute!" he shouted even louder.

After three minutes, she shuffled into the doorway, still tying her robe. “Stop shouting. I don't appreciate being shouted at first thing in the morning.”

He stood and turned the screen toward her.

She squinted. “What am I looking at?”

He jabbed a finger at the email. “I donated two million dollars. In honor of Sophie.”

Rachel blinked. “You what?”

He dragged a hand through his thinning hair. "I remember doing it, but I don't understand why. Why would I donate anything? Why would I donate everything?”

She stared at him, then walked over and slapped him hard. "How dare you do something like this without asking me?"

He dropped into his office chair and covered his face. "I remember doing it, but it was like a compulsion. My mind screamed at me to stop, but I couldn't," he said through his hands.

She looked at him with such disgust that he shivered.

With shaking hands, he drank his morning coffee with a hefty dash of cognac to steady his nerves when he heard a scream from the bedroom. He slammed the cup on the counter too hard, spilling coffee everywhere, and rushed upstairs. Rachel stood in front of her bedroom safe, its door open. She turned slowly, her face white as paper. “All my jewelry is gone. All of it. Every single piece. My grandmother’s rubies, the sapphire necklace, the brooches, the emerald set you gave me on our anniversary. All of it is gone.”

“No, no, no,” Malcolm said. “Check again.”

"I don't need to check again, the safe is empty." Her voice climbed to a screech. “Where is it?!”

“I don’t know!” He clutched his head with both hands. 

Rachel wheeled on him. “What do you mean you don’t know?"

“I don't know anything. Where is your jewelry, why I donated the money." He shook his head. "I don't understand what's happening. I woke up and suddenly remembered the donation! But I don’t understand why I did it. It’s like I was dreaming!”

Rachel started pacing, then stopped abruptly. “Someone was in the house.” She pointed at the safe. “Someone was here. Someone made you donate the money. I don’t know how. Hypnosis? Drugs? God, did you drink anything last night at the dinner?”

“We were at the Hilton, Rachel. It was a charity gala, not a back alley poker game."

“Then explain this!” she shouted, pointing at the empty safe.

"Besides, the donation was made three days ago, not last night."

“Call the police,” she snapped. “Now.”

He picked up the phone and dialed.

Two uniformed officers arrived about forty minutes later. They took initial statements, then moved through the house, photographed the safe, and dusted it for fingerprints. They collected prints from both Malcolm and Rachel for comparison. After a short wait, one of them returned and reported that the only prints on the safe belonged to the two of them, and there were no signs of forced entry. The safe showed no tampering.

Next, they reviewed the security footage from the house’s internal system. Malcolm watched along with them, eyes narrowed, arms folded across his chest. The only people captured on video were Malcolm and Rachel leaving the house and returning later that night. But something didn’t sit right with him. He turned away from the screen and went looking for Rachel.

"Why didn't you wear any jewelry yesterday?" he asked her.

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

"You always wear your jewelry. So why didn't you wear it last night?"

She put her hand on her neck. "I didn't want to. I felt compelled not to ..." her voice trailed off.

They stared at each other.

"That bastard did something to us," Malcolm fumed.

"What bastard?"

"The garbage Sophie called her husband. I know it's his doing. I can feel it in my bones."

He told the police his suspicions. They didn’t seem to believe him, but took his statement anyway and left with little fanfare.

Later that day, a detective showed up. Marcus Hanigen. He introduced himself politely enough, but his eyes swept the room like a scanner, pausing briefly on every surface as if expecting to find something incriminating.

He didn’t waste time. “What proof do you have of the theft?” he asked, voice clipped.

Malcolm straightened in his seat, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He tried for calm authority but couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his tone. “What do you mean, what proof? I don’t need proof! My wife’s jewelry was stolen, and it’s your job to find it. My word is enough. I’ve got friends who’ll back me up. Judges. The chief of police, even. So go and do the job I’m paying for. My taxes are paying for.”

Hanigen didn’t react. Just jotted something in a little notebook. “Why do you believe Dr. John Rue was involved?” he asked, his eyes never lifting.

“Because it’s exactly the kind of thing that lowlife would do,” Malcolm snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself and forced it back down. His fingers curled into tight fists on his thighs. “He’s a poor orphan from foster care who’s been preying on our family for years, and he’ll do anything he can to ruin us.”

He launched into an explanation of the donation, detailing how he had transferred two million dollars against his better judgment. Somewhere in the middle of his rant, the detective finally looked up. For a heartbeat, something passed through Hanigen’s expression. A flicker of judgment. A thin, barely concealed layer of contempt before his face went blank again.

“So you’re telling me,” Hanigen said slowly, “you willingly logged in, typed the amount, confirmed the transfer, and now you want to report it as a crime?”

Malcolm opened his mouth, then shut it again. He didn’t have a good answer.

The detective scribbled one final line in his notebook, then gave him a tight nod. “We’ll be in touch.”

The following day, the detective called.

“We checked,” Hanigen said. “Dr. Rue has an ironclad alibi for the night in question.”

Malcolm tried to argue, but the detective cut him off.

“He was in New York for the past three days. Flight records, hotel logs, credit card timestamps—everything checks out.”

“But—”

“No signs of travel in either direction. No flights, train tickets, or car rental records. Nothing. And frankly, you have no evidence he was even here, or that a crime occurred. The cameras don’t show him. There’s no sign of forced entry. The alarm system was never triggered. The safe shows no signs of tampering. You’re reporting missing jewelry with no proof of theft, and a donation made through your verified login. Legally, no crime has been committed.”

“But he did something to us!” Malcolm cried. “We were compelled!”

“Then go see a therapist,” the detective said dryly. “Because unless you can prove mind control, this accusation isn’t going anywhere.”

The next day, Malcolm opened the study safe and nearly had a heart attack. The only things left inside were a few documents. Again, he called the police. Again, he tried to convince them that there had been a break-in and theft, despite the complete lack of evidence to support his claim. Again, he insisted it was the work of that bastard. And again, they didn’t believe him.

Detective Hanigen even warned him that filing a false report or making baseless accusations to harass someone could be considered a criminal offense.

Malcolm was in despair. The insurance company denied his claim, citing the lack of police evidence to support the claim that a crime had occurred. He tried to recover the donation, but the foundation’s legal protections were airtight. Charitable contributions, once processed and confirmed, were irreversible unless fraud could be proven. Changing one’s mind wasn’t enough. Rachel had spent the last three days drunk from sunup to sundown, and with no idea what else to do, he eventually joined her. Together, they demolished a bottle of bourbon. It was easier to face the loss with a glass in hand, and his mind dulled.