Nothing But The Truth

By D.F. Kennedy

"I'm not afraid of heights, deep water, or love. I'm afraid of falling, drowning, and a broken heart!" ~ Unknown 

 

After leaving her singular life to become a wife and mother, Dahlia soon discovers that loneliness can often be an unwelcome guest. In an effort to rediscover the woman she once was, a false sense of security

• Language: English
• Publisher: DF Kennedy
• Release date: Jul 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986064369

Book preview

Where to Get Help

Trigger Warnings include violence and abuse, physical, mental, and sexual.

If you or someone you know needs help:

https://ncadv.org/get-help 1-800-799-7233 (Safe)

https://www.acf.hhs.gov/fysb/programs/family-violence-prevention-services/programs/ndvh. 1-800-799-7233 (Safe)

nami.org. Text Home to 741741 free, 24/7 (People are encouraged to text if they can’t call and ask for help due to perpetrators being near or close by)

samhsa.gov hotline [phone]-HELP (4357). Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

I’m not afraid of heights, deep water, or love. I’m afraid of falling, drowning, and a broken heart! ~ Unknown

Part One

Forevermrshughes

It feels different than I thought it would—Murder.

THAT’S ONE BODY THAT WILL NEVER BE FOUND

@DahliaFrostHughes #RolandandDahlia #youwillknowloss

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Chapter 1

Dead Flowers

Cameron

Everything dies. It’s inevitable, but why hurry the process along, as in the case of cut flowers? I find anything cut away from its life source particularly bothersome today as I stare at the once vibrant pink, purple, yellow, and red petals in the vase across the room. They have withered to a brown-infused pastel, and the lush green leaves have been replaced with crinkly brown edges. I shiver at the symbolism of dead flowers.

I don’t care much for forevermrshughes using my nickname for my daughter when she sends bouquets of black dahlias, signifying death. I don’t find her incredibly clever. Flower—a term used to let me know this is revenge. But for what? I promised Dahlia, and her husband, Roland; I would find and neutralize the threat.

I place a call to my old boss, Graham. I need to review old case files. Can you help me do that? I don’t feel right going over Graham’s head. Besides, I haven’t met the new General Director, and a call from someone he doesn’t know won’t help get me what I need.

Yes, I’ll call Ken and tell him. I’ll give him your number so he can ring you himself. I’m sure he’ll want more information, though, Graham says.

Thank you. Suppose you could pass along that I am mainly looking for information into the international case resulting in the bombing at my residence all those years ago. In that case, I think that shouldn’t be problematic.

Right. Right. I remember that. I don’t see where he would have a problem, Graham says before wishing me a good day.

A week later, unsure of what I’m looking for or what to expect, I travel to the iconic building at 12 Milbank - on the north bank of the River Thames adjacent to Lambeth Bridge.

Mr. Cannady… Ken, the General Director of MI5, greets me offering his hand. …It is nice to meet you.

Thank you. The pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.

As you know, in a position such as mine, not everyone speaks highly, I am sure. Ken jokes.

Smiling, I know full well what he means. I won’t get in the way. I can’t imagine it will take too long to go through years of old files. I roll my eyes as I say it, knowing my problem is bigger than finding a needle in a haystack.

Most files, of course, are now digital and were uploaded years ago. Let me introduce you to our IT team. You might remember some of the employees in the records division. Follow me. He leads me through the building, which I once knew like the back of my hand. I discover I still do, and nothing has changed—the same flooring, paint color, and photos hanging on the walls. 

All eyes are on me as we pass by cubicles of agents standing and staring. I don’t understand the interest. Then I’m led past a wall of photographs—one is of me. I look at what the plaque reads, Agent Cameron Cannady Victoria Cross medal recipient. Now I understand the looks because, to some, that specific medal makes me a legend in their eyes. I acknowledge their respect but am pleased no one can see how quickly my mind and health are failing.

In the basement of the Thames House, using my assigned temporary password, I log into the database. Scratching my head, I sip a cup of tea, staring at the sign on the wall.

Only an Officer of the level of SAG and above may use green ink or red in rare cases.

I begin my search by typing the word Flower, the code name used when I was undercover, and sought out the double agents working in the name of the Queen, later reported as 1985: The Year of the Spy. I scroll through the pages quickly to get to the end, and that’s when I notice the page count—nine hundred eighty-one pages. I scroll back to the beginning.

Page one.

I pull my fountain pen filled with green ink from my attaché case when I find the document listing the uncovered spies. I take note of all nine names. Then I search for a connection between the code name and any other case involving agents and stalking.

I am sure the gender-specific username, forevermrshughes, was intentional for a man to hide behind. Whoever it is, he made it clear in the note sent to Dahlia that he knows her nickname, "Flower," confirming, if only to me, the threat is related to my work. I remove the Xeroxed copy of the evidence and read it.

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Black Dahlias die

Then are cut in two.

Congratulations on the birth of your Flower.

~ ForeverMrsHughes

An hour later, lifting my bifocals from the bridge of my nose to the top of my head, I rub my eyes and sit back. Sighing, I begin again, reading, searching, and remembering until late into the night.

Placing my arm into my coat sleeve, I glance back at the stack of old files sitting untouched on the desk, knowing this will likely take more time than Dahlia, or I have. Exiting the building, I light a cigar before climbing into my car. I’m sure I will find forevermrshughes somewhere within the nine-hundred pages left to read.

It’s been months since Roland and Dahlia’s baby girl, Ro, was born, and the bouquet of roses with the black dahlia was delivered to the hospital. And I’m no closer to discovering who is behind the threatening messages. I have searched all the pages of the spy case and nearly all the paper files.

The stack has dwindled to the dreaded file placed at the bottom when I began this needle-in-a-haystack search. I know its contents and would rather take a bullet than review it, but I’m determined to dissect the old case. I see a familiar case file dating back thirty-eight years and a name, Peter Cannady, my son. I flip through the contents until I am staring at the images of my eighteen-year-old son dead and my badly injured wife lying in the rubble of what remained of my car.

Somehow, forevermrshughes is linked to me. I feel it in my gut, and after months of reviewing, I know it has to do with the bombing. There were no red flags in any of the other cases.

Needing to regroup, I stand and carry the stacks of the paper files I have already searched back to the file clerk. Returning to my desk with a fresh cup of hot tea and hopefully a new set of eyes, I lay out the file of the bombing piece by piece like cards in a game of solitaire.

I position pen and paper in front of me, prepared to make a note of any tidbit of information previously overlooked. Placing page number one under the bright desk lamp and pushing my bifocals into place, I comb through pages of text I’ve read a dozen times. The facts of the case pass through my veins as surely as my blood, making me dizzy with memories. I have read it multiple times and know the contents by heart.

It has been years, but this is something a parent never forgets. Having gone through a third of the file before rubbing my eyes and cracking my neck, I expel the air in my lungs. There must be something I’m overlooking, but what? I ask no one.

After careful research and not finding any other connection, I surmise if whoever wanted me dead nearly four decades ago could get close enough to plant a bomb in my car as it sat in my driveway, then who is to say they couldn’t be planting digital bombs behind the safety of their computer?

The following day, my efforts are rewarded when I find a witness statement from the bombing, reportedly seeing a man known as Chin Wu-Tai at the scene. Who the bloody hell is Chin Wu-Tai, and why does that name sound familiar? The spy case. I flip through my pad of paper, looking for the list of uncovered spies.

I am reminded of the spy who escaped. You’d think he’d been easy to spot since he placed his attaché case under his long raincoat in ninety-degree temperatures in California, but he escaped the authorities. What was the man’s name? Number seven captures my attention—Wu Tai Chin.

I look back at the witness statement. This can’t be a coincidence. Witnesses always get things wrong, but Chin Wu Tai and Wu Tai Chin? My gut tells me they are one and the same.

Further search, disappointingly, does not reveal the identity of the so-called witness. Still, I am confident they are the same person. And I believe he’s the one behind all the threats to Dahlia.

Chapter 2

Roses & Wildfire

Dahlia

I’ve played hundreds of hands of rummy with Mom while Roland has been away on another long trip and publicity tour. I’ve spent the rest of my time with our baby girl. My life has changed so much that I hardly recognize myself.

Foolishly, I believed I’d remain happy with this life. I was at first when I had Roland as a partner and lover at home. But I’m bored, lonely, and I miss New York. I miss the meetings and being hustled from one event to another. I miss having a reason to dress well. The only thing I don’t miss is the paparazzi. Sighing, I glance at the security monitors watching Ro, reminded of why Roland and I agreed I should stay home. We are safe here.

I make myself comfortable and prepare for a serious day of crossing to-dos off my list. Sitting in my office chair with my legs folded under me, I sip my tea while staring out the window, watching our nanny, Maisy, stroll Ro around the property.

Twenty minutes later, tapping the #2 pencil against my desk, I bite down on my lower lip. I attempt to work on a new book but can’t concentrate on fiction. I have too many real-life stories to decipher, and if I can’t focus on fiction, I am determined to solve my mystery so Ro and I can leave our elaborate, beautiful home that has quickly become a prison. I’m determined to solve the mystery of forevermrshughes, and as if I could forget, my ex-husband, Daniel, is also somewhere in the UK.

At least, that is what Sheriff McMillen told me when he called. ‘There is evidence that Daniel flew into London the day you were arrested.’ I can’t help but wonder if he was on the same flight as Roland. It seems everyone left the US that day for London except me. I, of course, was arrested for the murder of my stepfather, Bob. If they had only listened to me, Daniel would be in jail, and there would be one less thing to worry about. I know there are many unanswered questions, and I can’t tell Roland what Sheriff McMillen said, or I will surely be an actual prisoner in my own home.

During my arrest, I saw officers studying boards on which pictures, notes, items, and lines were attached in a seemingly haphazard manner, but I now realize there was a method to the madness. Now, I stare at a similar board I created to organize the events leading up to my present-day situation and find the answers I seek. Leaning closer, I try to connect months’ worth of research, drawing an arrow between bolded bullet statements to and from each clue, before twisting my chair, leaning back, and staring at my suspect wall again.

My office wall is covered in newspaper clippings and Xeroxed copies of tweets and threats. There is a photo taken from the employment records of Olivia, my kidnapper, whose real name was Kimberly, with a red string leading to an image of Bob with a large red X across his face. There is a photo of Daniel, his eyes and mouth blacked out, with a red string leading to Bob. There’s a picture of my mother, Sylvia, and father, Cameron, and a copy of a death certificate for Dahmon, the man I thought was my father until yet another truth was revealed. A red string links the death certificate to Sylvia and Kimberly. The wall art looks like an ancestry chart or a child’s art project.

I look at the wall from every angle, bending to the left and right, and that’s when I see it. Most red strings linking people from one to the other lead to Daniel’s photo. What do I really know about him? What did I ever really know about him before I married him? Then I realize I’ve been looking at this all wrong.

Jumping up from my chair, I remove push pins, red strings, and photos, moving them into different configurations until I’m left with a blank space, a missing face connected in some way to Daniel. I don’t know who pulls the strings, but I am even more convinced that Daniel killed Bob. But how does that connect to forevermrshughes? That is the million-dollar question.

What I do know is that the blank space above Daniel’s photo is the space reserved for forevermrshughes. I pin the floral card sent along with the roses and the black dahlia in the blank space above Daniel’s photo. Now, I need to prove it. Convinced I need more information and a private investigator to gather it, I expel a hard-earned sigh and call Mr. Brummett. He’s the PI who gave me the photos of Daniel and Bob exiting the boat, which supposedly proves Daniel’s innocence in Bob’s death. But that doesn’t mean Daniel didn’t go back later that night and kill him.

If Daniel didn’t do it, then why did he flee? Yes, blackmailing me and holding me at gunpoint would have landed him in jail, but I’m convinced he ran for more significant reasons than that. But if Cameron or Roland didn’t do it, that only leaves Daniel. I know I didn’t do it, and Sylvia denies involvement. Who else could have gotten into Sylvia’s house and stolen the letter she wrote to me? The one identifying Cameron as my biological father. I know I put the letter back in the drawer. I’m sure Daniel did it the morning he attacked me. Daniel told me he killed Bob even though the sheriff’s office isn’t convinced it was him. They think he only confessed, believing I would be grateful enough to marry him a second time. He really is delusional!

Sipping my tea, I wander around the house, stopping to stare out the glass doors to the rear garden before returning to the office. I thumb through all the notes I’ve taken and repeatedly turn the facts over in my mind. According to the sheriff, Daniel’s house hasn’t been visited since my arrest. His truck was towed off the ranch and taken to the impound, where it was gone over with a fine-tooth comb for any evidence linking him to Bob’s death, but there is nothing. Currently, he can only be charged with blackmail and conspiracy to commit kidnapping. He didn’t give any false information. His statement is what led up to my arrest. Yes, I was spotted at the river, and yes, it was Sylvia’s gun with my partial print on it - the very weapon he told them where to find. But they couldn’t prove that a specific gun was used to kill Bob, and no bullet was found to match. Deep in thought, I am startled when my cell phone rings. Hello.

Dahlia, how are you? Cameron asks.

We are well. You? If I could feel things like an average person, I’d give this man and his part in my existence more thought. As I already told Cameron and Mom, I don’t forgive them. I am, however, grateful he is attempting to keep in contact. 

I’m well. Just wanting to check on you. Check on me? I roll the words around on my tongue, not particularly liking the taste considering he didn’t check on or protect me when I really needed saving. I believe he feels remorse for not checking on me and splitting Roland and me up all those years ago. The irreparable damage his selected involvement caused in my life weighs heavy on us all, and I think he doesn’t want to miss out on his granddaughter’s life as he missed out on mine. Time will tell.