They Planned a Christmas Party With My Money and Left Me Out — On Christmas Night, They Blew Up My Phone(9/12)

We drove for forty minutes, winding through back roads until we reached a small cottage in Connecticut. It looked abandoned, but when Sarah unlocked the door, I found it fully furnished and stocked with supplies. “How long have you had this place?” I asked.

“Three months,” Sarah said. “Since you refused to listen to reason about David.”

I sank onto the couch, still wearing my ruined wedding dress. “You really thought it would come to this?”

“I hoped it wouldn’t,” Sarah said gently.

“I hoped I was wrong. But Vic, I couldn’t risk losing you.”

She handed me a laptop. “I’ve been documenting everything.

Every piece of evidence, every connection. It’s all here.”

I spent the next hour reading through Sarah’s investigation. It was even worse than I’d imagined.

David wasn’t just a serial killer who married wealthy women—he was part of a sophisticated operation. The fake identities, the forged documents, the network of accomplices who helped stage accidents. “Richard Blackwood, the owner of the Grand Conservatory,” Sarah explained, “he’s been involved in at least six suspicious deaths.

The venue provides the perfect setting—old building, lots of things that can go wrong. Tonight was supposed to be a fire, with you trapped inside. The sprinkler system was rigged with accelerant instead of water.”

“And the champagne?” I asked.

“Backup plan,” Sarah said. “If you managed to escape the fire, the allergic reaction would finish the job. Either way, David becomes a grieving widower who inherits your estate.”

“But we have a prenup,” I said.

“That you signed under fraudulent pretenses,” Sarah replied. “The lawyer who drafted it is part of David’s network. And there’s a clause that voids the prenup if you die within the first year of marriage—claiming it shows the marriage was valid and not just a financial arrangement.

It’s actually a clever legal trap.”

I felt sick. “How many women has he done this to?”

“That we can prove? Four.

But I think there are more. I found records suggesting he’s been operating under different identities for at least fifteen years.”

My phone—or rather, the burner phone Sarah handed me—buzzed. A news alert about a fire at the Grand Conservatory.

Multiple injuries, investigation ongoing. “The guests,” I said. “Are they okay?”

“Most got out safely,” Sarah said, scrolling through updates.

“A few injuries from the panic, smoke inhalation. But no deaths.”

“Thank God,” I breathed. “The police are looking for you,” Sarah added.

“They want to make sure you’re safe.”

“We should go to them,” I said. “Tell them everything.”

“We will,” Sarah said. “But not yet.

We need to be smart about this. David has resources, connections. If we go to the police now, with just my evidence, he’ll claim it’s a misunderstanding.

That you had cold feet and your sister convinced you to run.”

“So what do we do?”

“We get better evidence,” Sarah said. “I’ve been working with a private investigator—a former FBI agent who specializes in this kind of case. She’s been tracking David’s movements, his communications.

She has contacts in law enforcement who can help us build an airtight case.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few days. Maybe a week,” Sarah said. “Can you handle staying hidden that long?”

I looked down at my ruined wedding dress, thought about the four women who’d died because they’d trusted the wrong man, and nodded.

“I can handle it,” I said. “For as long as it takes.”

The Investigation

The private investigator Sarah had hired was named Margaret Chen. She arrived at the safe house the next morning—a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with close-cropped gray hair and an air of competence that immediately put me at ease.

“Ms. Ashford,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’m glad you’re safe.

Your sister did the right thing getting you out of there.”

“Please, call me Victoria,” I said. “And thank you for helping us.”

Margaret opened her briefcase, pulling out files and photographs. “I’ve been investigating David Montgomery for the past two months.

What I’ve found is disturbing but also provides exactly what we need to put him away for good.”

She spread photographs across the table. “David’s real name is Daniel Morrison. He’s originally from Ohio—grew up in foster care after his parents died in a car accident when he was eight.

He was a smart kid, got a scholarship to college, studied business and psychology.”

“Psychology?” I asked. “Yes. He’s very good at reading people, understanding what they want to hear.

It’s how he’s been so successful at targeting vulnerable wealthy women.”

The word “vulnerable” stung, but I knew it was true. I’d been lonely, grieving my father, desperate for connection. “His first confirmed victim was Catherine Morrison, his college girlfriend,” Margaret continued.

“They married right after graduation. She came from old money—her family owned a pharmaceutical company. Six months after the wedding, she died in a hiking accident in Switzerland.

Daniel inherited everything.”

“And no one suspected him?” Sarah asked. “The Swiss police investigated, but Daniel had an alibi—he was at the hotel when she fell. He seemed genuinely devastated.

What they didn’t know was that Daniel had hired someone to push her. We tracked down the man he hired—he’s serving time for an unrelated crime and is willing to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence.”

My hands clenched. “He murdered her.”

“Yes,” Margaret said simply.

“And then he moved on to Lydia, Amanda, and Isabelle. Each time, the pattern was the same: whirlwind romance, quick marriage, convenient death, inheritance. He’d wait a few years between victims, change his appearance slightly, use a new identity.”

“How did he find them?” I asked.

“Charity events, social gatherings, dating apps for wealthy professionals,” Margaret explained. “He was methodical. He’d research potential targets, learn their vulnerabilities, craft the perfect persona to appeal to them.”

“And I was just another target,” I said bitterly.

“You were the biggest target,” Margaret corrected. “The Ashford Trust is worth more than all his previous victims’ estates combined. This was going to be his retirement score.”

She pulled out another file.

“But Daniel made mistakes this time. He got greedy and impatient. The wedding was too soon after you met.

The prenup was too obviously fraudulent. And he involved too many people—the forger, Richard Blackwood, the catering company owner. Each person is a potential weak link.”

“Have you talked to them?” Sarah asked.

“We have agents talking to them right now,” Margaret said. “The caterer is already cooperating—he’s terrified of going to prison. He’s provided detailed records of his communications with David, including instructions about the champagne.”

“And Blackwood?” I asked.

“Harder nut to crack,” Margaret admitted. “He’s been through this before. But we have evidence linking him to multiple suspicious fires at his venues over the years.

With the right pressure, he might flip.”

“What about David?” I asked. “Where is he now?”

Margaret’s expression darkened. “That’s the concerning part.

He disappeared from the Grand Conservatory during the chaos. We’ve been tracking his credit cards, phone records—nothing. He’s gone to ground.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“So he’s out there somewhere, looking for me.”

“Possibly,” Margaret said. “But he doesn’t know about this safe house. Your sister was very careful.

And we have the advantage—he thinks you don’t know about his past. He probably assumes you ran away because of the fire, not because you discovered his plan.”

“What’s the next step?” Sarah asked. “We build the case,” Margaret said.

“I have contacts in the FBI who are interested in this. David has crossed state lines multiple times to commit these crimes—that makes it federal. We’re putting together a task force.”

“How long before you can arrest him?” I asked.

“A few days,” Margaret said. “We want to make sure we have everything before we move. Otherwise, a good lawyer might get him off on technicalities.”

The next four days were the longest of my life.

I stayed in the safe house, watching news coverage of the “disastrous wedding at the Grand Conservatory.” The media was having a field day—the fire, the missing bride, the accusations of attempted murder. David gave an interview, playing the heartbroken groom. “I just want Victoria to know I love her,” he said, looking directly into the camera with tears in his eyes.

“Whatever happened, whatever scared her, we can work through it together.”

It was a masterful performance. I almost believed him myself. But then Margaret called with an update.

“We found the forger David hired. He kept copies of everything—fake death certificates, forged insurance documents, altered prenuptial agreements. It’s a goldmine of evidence.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“There’s more,” Margaret added. “We found evidence that David was planning another murder—he’d already selected his next victim. A widow in Boston, worth about fifty million.

He was going to start pursuing her as soon as you were dead.”

The casual evil of it took my breath away. I wasn’t a person to him, just a transaction. And after me, there would have been another woman, and another.

“We’re ready to move,” Margaret said. “The FBI is issuing a warrant for David’s arrest. We know where he is.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Your apartment,” Margaret said. “He’s been staying there, going through your things. We have him on surveillance.”

“My apartment?” I felt violated.

“How did he get in?”

“He has a key,” Margaret reminded me. “From when you gave him access.”

Of course. I’d given him a key after we got engaged.

He’d probably had copies made. “When are they arresting him?” I asked. “Tomorrow morning,” Margaret said.

“And Victoria—I think you should be there.”

“At the arrest?”

“Yes. The FBI agents want you to formally identify him, confirm his identity. And I think… I think you need to see this.

To see him in custody, to know he can’t hurt you anymore.”

I considered it. Part of me never wanted to see David again. But Margaret was right—I needed closure.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

Justice

The next morning, Sarah drove me to my apartment building in Manhattan. FBI agents had surrounded the building, though they were trying to be discreet.

Margaret met us outside. “He’s still inside,” she said. “We’ve been monitoring him all night.

He ordered takeout, watched TV, slept in your bed. Acting like he owned the place.”

My stomach turned. “Let’s get this over with.”

The FBI team leader, Agent Rodriguez, briefed me.

“We’re going in at seven a.m. He usually wakes up around that time. We’ll have him in custody within minutes.

I need you to stay back until we’ve secured him.”

I nodded, too nervous to speak. At exactly seven, six FBI agents entered the building. Sarah and I waited with Margaret and Agent Rodriguez in an unmarked van, watching on monitors as the team approached my apartment door.

They knocked. “FBI! Open up!”

Silence.

Then the sound of movement inside. “FBI! We have a warrant!

Open the door or we’re coming in!”

More silence. Then suddenly, a crash—David had gone out the window onto the fire escape. “He’s running,” Agent Rodriguez barked into his radio.

“Cover the exits!”

On the monitor, I watched David climb down the fire escape, agents pursuing. He hit the ground running, sprinting down the alley behind the building. “He’s not going to make it,” Margaret said calmly.

“We have the whole block surrounded.”

She was right. Within a minute, agents tackled David at the end of the alley. I watched on the monitor as they handcuffed him, reading him his rights.

“Got him,” Agent Rodriguez said. “Ms. Ashford, we need you for the identification.”

My legs felt weak as Sarah and I walked to the alley.

FBI agents were everywhere, securing the scene. And there, in handcuffs, was David. He looked different than I remembered.

Disheveled, desperate, nothing like the polished man I’d fallen in love with. When he saw me, his expression changed—a flash of rage, quickly covered by his familiar charm. “Victoria,” he said.

“Thank God. Tell them this is a mistake. Tell them—”

“I can’t do that, David,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice was.

“Or should I call you Daniel Morrison?”

His face went pale. “What?”

“I know everything,” I continued. “Catherine, Lydia, Amanda, Isabelle.

All the women you murdered. All the lives you destroyed.”

“That’s insane,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Victoria, they’ve fed you lies—”

“Stop,” I interrupted.