Chapter 6 - THE WIFE WHO CRIED ON TELEVISION
Celeste moved fast.
By the next morning, local business media had already picked up the story that Kincaid Quantum’s CEO had missed a major signing and was “unreachable amid personal distress.” By noon, a tabloid website published blurred photos of Toby at Prescott’s ranch with the headline:
MISSING CEO HIDING WITH MYSTERY BOY WHILE WIFE FEARS FOR HIS SAFETY
At two o’clock, Celeste appeared outside the Kincaid residence with mascara-soft eyes and a pale cashmere cardigan, telling cameras she was “deeply concerned” about her husband’s erratic behavior.
“He’s under tremendous pressure,” she said. “I only want him to come home safely.”
Desmond watched the clip from Prescott’s den and felt physically ill.
“She’s going to claim I’m unstable,” he said.
“She already is,” Prescott replied.
Celeste’s attorney filed an emergency petition that same afternoon asking for a temporary corporate-health review on the grounds that Desmond’s unexplained disappearance jeopardized company operations. Victor Hale’s board allies backed it immediately.
Then came the nastier move.
An anonymous report went to child welfare authorities stating that Toby Shelton had been unlawfully taken by an unrelated wealthy executive involved in a mental breakdown and corporate fraud dispute.
A caseworker called Prescott within hours.
Prescott, fortunately, knew how to handle institutions.
He disclosed that Toby was temporarily sheltered with counsel oversight due to a credible threat to the child’s safety, that police were investigating his mother’s disappearance, and that paternity issues were subject to legal review. The caseworker still asked to see the boy.
Toby met her in Prescott’s kitchen, clean now, less frightened, still clutching the stuffed bear whenever adults asked questions he didn’t like.
When she asked whether anyone had hurt him at the ranch, he shook his head.
When she asked whether he wanted to stay, he looked at Desmond for a long moment and then answered, “I want my mom.”
That was the truest thing in the room.
Later, when the caseworker had left satisfied but not unconcerned, Desmond found Toby sitting on the back steps feeding cracker crumbs to birds.
“Did I make things worse for you?” Desmond asked.
Toby shrugged without looking up.
“You already had things.”
The sentence sat between them.
Desmond, who had spent fifteen years being asked for investment, leadership, vision, and quarterly certainty, found himself unable to answer a child with scraped knees and an honest mouth.
At sunset, Sam Collier called.
A tow-yard worker outside Mesa had found Desmond’s black sedan abandoned near a ravine road.
The front brakes had fully failed.
And someone had wiped the obvious prints from the engine compartment.
May you like
Celeste’s plan had not merely been theoretical.
It had been tested all the way to where his body was supposed to land.
