Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 196

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 196

Her daughter’s name was Carol

Chapter 196 Her daughter’s name was Carol

Kyle’s POV

Three weeks in Paris, and I was no closer to exonerating my father than when I’d arrived.

If anything, I’d only uncovered more sins.

The file on my desk contained photographs, financial records, Morton’s call Interrupted my thoughts.

“Morton,” I answered, my voice rough from lack of sleep.

“Kyle,” he replied. “There’s been a development. Richard Williams is dead.”

I moved away from the window, alert. “How?”

“Officially? Suicide. He was found hanging in his cell early this morning.

“And unofficially?”

Morton’s slight hesitation told me everything I needed to know. “The timing is…. concerning. Especially given certain conversations he had recently,”

“With whom?” I demanded, though I already suspected the answer.

“Mia. He requested to meet with her several days ago.

My hand tightened around the phone. “What did he want?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Morton admitted. “But according to Scarlett, it had something to do with Diana Porter.”

‘Did he tell her anything specific?”

“If he did, she hasn’t shared it with us. But she’s convinced his death wasn’t suicide.”

I ran a hand through my hair, processing this new complication. “Is she safe?”

“For now. Scarlett and I are with her. Her mother as well. ”

I wanted to ask more. How was she feeling? Was she taking care of herself? Did she mention me at all? But pride held my tongue.

“I’ll inform our contact at the Justice Department,” I said instead. “Have them look into Williams‘ death.”

“Already done,” Morton replied. “There’s one more thing.”

I waited, sensing his reluctance.

“Mia had a message for you,” he said finally. “If you want to know anything about her, you should, and I quote, ” come and ask her directly.”

Something twisted in my chest. “Is that all?”

“She also said to tell you to ‘stop being a coward.“”

Her daughter’s name was Carol

A coward. Is that she thought what I’d become?

“Kyle?” Morton prompted when I didn’t respond.

“I’ll call you back,” I said abruptly, ending the call before he could respond.

I stared at the scattered documents on the hotel desk, the investigation that had consumed me these past weeks. I reached for my jacket. There was someone in Paris I needed to see–a retired detective who’d been surprisingly difficult to track down. My team had finally located him in a small apartment in Montmartre, living under a different name. The man who had investigated Diana Porter’s death and ruled it an accident despite, as I’d recently learned, substantial evidence to the contrary. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ

The apartment building was unassuming, a narrow structure wedged between a bakery and a small art gallery. I pulled my collar up against the rain and approached the security panel, pressing the button for apartment 38.

After a long moment, a gruff voice answered in French.

“Monsieur Dubois,” I replied in the same language. “My name is Kyle Branson. I’d like to speak with you about Diana Porter.”

Silence. Then the buzzer sounded, granting me entry.

The stairwell was narrow and dimly lit, the green paint peeling in places to reveal layers of previous colors beneath. My footsteps echoed as I climbed to the third floor, where a man waited in an open doorway, watching my approach with wary eyes.

Henri Dubois–formerly Detective Henri Marchand of the Adirondack County Sheriff’s Department–had aged considerably from the photographs I’d seen. His hair had thinned and whitened, his face mapped with deep lines, his posture slightly stooped. But his eyes remained sharp, assessing me with the practiced gaze of a career law enforcement officer.

“You look like him,” he said in accented English, making no move to invite me inside. “Alexander. Same eyes.”

I kept my expression neutral, “May I come in?”

He studied me a moment longer, then stepped aside. “You’ve come a long way for a conversation that won’t change anything.”

The apartment was small but meticulously organized, with bookshelves lining the walls and a desk positioned near the window to catch the northern light. A half–finished watercolor painting sat on an easel in the corner

.

“You’re an artist,” I observed.

“A hobby, since retirement.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit if you wish. Tell me why you’re here, disturbing an old man’s peace.”

I remained standing, “I think we both know why I’m here. Diana Porter. Her death wasn’t an accident.”

“Many deaths aren’t what they seem,” he replied, moving to an electric kettle that sat on a small side table.” Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Her daughter’s name was Carol

He shrugged and prepared a cup for himself, his movements unhurried, deliberate. “Why now, Mr. Branson? After all these years?”

“Because the truth is coming to light regardless. I’d prefer to understand it before the rest of the world does.”

He stirred his tea slowly, the spoon clinking against porcelain. “The truth. Such a simple word for such a complicated thing.”

“Did my father pay you to rule her death an accident?” I asked bluntly.

Dubois didn’t flinch at the accusation. “Yes.”

The direct admission caught me off guard. I’d expected denials, evasions, a need to push harder for the truth.

“Your father was a very persuasive man,” Dubois continued, settling into an armchair and gesturing again for me to sit. This time I did, perching on the edge of a straight–backed chair opposite him. “He could make things seem reasonable, even when they weren’t. He called it ‘an unfortunate situation that required practical management.”

“You mean covering up a murder,” I said flatly.

Dubois sipped his tea. “I was three years from retirement. My wife had multiple sclerosis. The medical bills…” He trailed off, then met my gaze directly. “Your father offered financial security for both of us. All I had to do was focus the investigation in certain directions, away from others.”

“But you knew she was murdered.”

“I suspected,” he corrected. “There were inconsistencies. The bruising pattern on her wrists and neck. The missing boat that was later found damaged and abandoned on the opposite shore. Her phone call to a friend the previous day expressing fear that ‘they had found her.“” He set down his cup. “But nothing definitive enough that I couldn’t rationalize the decision. At least, that’s what I told myself.”

“And now?”

A shadow crossed his weathered face. “Now I’m an old man with regrets. My wife is gone. The money that seemed so important then… what does it matter now?” He leaned forward slightly. “Why are you really here, Mr. Branson? Not just for confirmation of what you already suspected.”

I reached into my jacket and removed a photograph, placing it on the small table between us. The image showed Diana Porter at a charity gala, her dark hair swept up elegantly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“I need to know if Diana Porter had a child before she died,” I said, watching his reaction closely.

Dubois stilled, his expression shifting subtly. “What makes you think that?”

“Certain documents suggest she was pregnant around the time she began investigating the Santiago mine. Did she have the child before she died?”

He studied the photograph, something like sorrow passing across his features. “You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, Mr. Branson. There are people who have built their lives on keeping these secrets buried.”

“I’m aware of the risks.”

Her daughter’s name was Carol

“Are you?” His gaze sharpened. “Your father understood the stakes. That’s why he paid me to look the other way. That’s why he arranged for Diana’s medical records to disappear, for her past to be scrubbed clean.”

“So she did have a child,” I pressed.

Dubois sighed heavily, “Yes. A daughter. Born about a year before she met your father.”

My breath caught. “Do you know what happened to her? To the child?”

“No. And I made sure not to find out.” He rose from his chair, moving with the careful deliberation of age to a bookshelf. After a moment’s search, he removed a slim volume and brought it back, extracting a yellowed envelope from between its pages.

“Diana gave this to a friend for safekeeping. The friend passed it to me during the investigation, hoping it would help identify the killer. I should have included it in the evidence. Instead, I kept it.” He held the envelope out to me. “Perhaps it belongs with you now.”

I accepted it with caution. “What is it?”

“A letter Diana wrote to her daughter, in case anything happened to her. I’ve never opened it. The friend didn’t know what it contained either, only that Diana was insistent it reach her daughter if she died.”

I stared at the envelope, the name “Carol” written in elegant script across the front. Just a single name, no address or other identifier.

“Carol,” I murmured. “Her daughter’s name was Carol?”