“Whitmore was the one who poisoned his medication,” Rachel said. “He had access to the medical shipments. He made it look like a natural heart failure.”

I watched her face closely, searching for any sign of a lie.

My military training had taught me how to read suspects under extreme pressure.

Rachel’s terror felt entirely real.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” I asked.

“Because Whitmore owns the local authorities here, and he had contacts in Virginia,” she said. “He promised to destroy me next if I spoke.”

“So you agreed to marry Prince Alexander to stay close to the power structure,” I said.

“I did it to survive,” Rachel said. “If I became royalty, Whitmore could not touch me without starting an international incident.”

She looked toward the vestry door where our mother was resting.

“And I had to keep Mother hidden,” Rachel added. “Whitmore told me she was dead, but I found out he was keeping her in a private sanitarium under a false name to use as leverage against me.”

“Where is the proof, Rachel?” I asked.