Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Penthouse
I injected the hydrocortisone with shaking hands,
the needle sinking into my thigh through my silk nightgown.
Within minutes,
the chemical fire began to stabilize my blood pressure.
The fog in my brain lifted just enough for me to see the world clearly.
I sat on the floor of the closet,
surrounded by my husband's suits,
and I read the documents he had hidden.
He hadn't just left me to die;
he had emptied our joint accounts,
transferring the funds to an offshore bank in the Cayman Islands.
He had even signed my name to a power of attorney form,
forged with terrifying accuracy.
He expected to return to a funeral and a fortune.
I reached for the landline phone in the bedroom,
but the cord had been cut.
He was thorough.
However,
Garrett was a man of vanity,
not technology.
He didn't realize that my laptop was hidden in the charging drawer,
and that the penthouse's smart-home system was linked to my tablet.
I crawled back to the bed,
retrieved the tablet,
and connected to the building's emergency security network.
I didn't call the police yet.
If I called them now,
Garrett would know I was alive.
He would see the alerts.
He would return and finish what he started.
I needed him to think he was winning.
I sent an encrypted message to Dr. Maya Evans.
"Don't come to the apartment,"
I wrote.
"Send the private security team from the hospital.
I am being hunted."
Two hours later,
the service elevator hummed to life.
A team of two paramedics and a security guard,
hired by Dr. Evans,
entered through the kitchen.
They found me on the bedroom floor,
surrounded by blood and broken glass.
"Don't take me to the hospital,"
I told them,
clutching the security guard's arm.
"If I leave,
he wins.
Transform this place into a medical ward.
Hide the equipment.
We are going to wait for him."
The next month was a grueling cycle of recovery.
I had nurses stationed in the guest room,
operating in total silence.
We kept the lights low.
We didn't order food;
the doctor brought supplies in her gym bag.
I watched Garrett's social media through a burner phone.
There he was in Paris,
smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower.
There was Brenda,
buying diamonds on the Place Vendôme.
There was Tiffany,
drinking wine in the Alps.
They were celebrating my death,
one day at a time,
using my money to fund their macabre vacation.
I grew stronger.
I spent hours with a physical therapist,
learning to walk again in the hallway where Garrett had left me for dead.
I met with detectives in secret,
showing them the safe,
the forged documents,
and the hidden cameras I had installed.
"He’s coming back on day seventy-four,"
I told the lead detective.
"He expects to find a body."
May you like
"He'll find justice instead,"
the detective replied.
