Chapter 5 - THE FIRST LIE
The first transfer was for $180,000.
The second was $250,000.
The third was just under $400,000.
All within six months.
“Eight hundred thirty thousand dollars?” I whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
“Almost.”
“How?”
“We’re checking.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“I can explain.”
I laughed.
“Great.”
Margaret grabbed his arm.
“Don’t.”
That one word told me everything.
I pointed at the door.
“Security.”
Ethan ignored me.
“Claire, your father’s trust invested in my company.”
“My trust did not invest in anything without my approval.”
“You signed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He stared at the paperwork.
Maybe he had expected me to be too frightened to ask questions.
Maybe he thought falling down the stairs would erase my ability to think.
It hadn’t.
It sharpened it.
A hospital security officer entered.
“Sir, ma’am, you’ve been asked to leave.”
Margaret lifted her chin.
“This is a family matter.”
The officer didn’t blink.
“Not anymore.”
Watching her escorted out gave me my first full breath all day.
But the relief lasted less than a minute.
My doctor entered carrying new test results.
“Claire, we’re seeing signs of placental stress.”
My hand flew to my stomach.
“Is the baby okay?”
“Right now, yes.”
“Right now?”
“We need to monitor both of you closely.”
“What happens if it gets worse?”
“We may need to deliver.”
I was thirty-four weeks and five days.
Too early.
Not catastrophically early.
But early enough to scare me.
That night, I lay awake listening to my daughter’s heartbeat through the monitor.
Yes.
Daughter.
We had planned to call her Sophie.
Ethan had painted her room pale green.
He had assembled the crib.
He had spent an entire afternoon arguing with me about whether babies needed a wipe warmer.
How could that man be the same man on Daniel’s camera?
At 2:13 a.m., my phone lit up.
Unknown number.
Delete the video.
I stared at it.
Another message came.
You don’t understand what will happen if you send it to the police.
Then:
Ask Ethan about November 14.
November 14.
The date meant nothing at first.
Then I remembered.
The car accident.
Three months earlier.
My brakes had failed while I was driving home from work.
The mechanic called it a freak hydraulic issue.
Ethan had been the last person to drive my car.
I sat upright.
My heart monitor accelerated.
A nurse rushed in.
“What happened?”
I showed her the messages.
She read them.
Then looked at me.
“Claire, I think we should call the police.”
Before I could answer, another text arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
It showed Ethan crouched beside my car the night before my brakes failed.
May you like
And Margaret was standing beside him.
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