Chapter 2 - The City Where I Tried to Disappear
Vancouver was supposed to feel far enough away.
Far from Chicago.
Far from the Moretti name.
Far from marble hallways, armed guards, black sedans, and the sound of my husband’s voice telling me I had survived as though survival erased what he had done.
I rented a small house near the water under my maiden name.
My parents came with me.
My father refused to call it hiding.
He called it “taking back the right to sleep.”
For the first ten nights, none of us slept anyway.
I woke coughing.
Sometimes I woke screaming.
Sometimes I woke with my hands clawing at my own throat because in the nightmare I was back in the bedroom, the handle wouldn’t turn, and Alexander’s footsteps were moving away.
The doctors said my lungs were healing.
My voice came back slowly.
At first, it was a whisper.
Then a rasp.
By the end of the second week in Canada, I could speak in short sentences without pain.
The baby was healthy.
That was the only fact I trusted.
I had not named the baby.
I would not allow myself to think too far ahead.
There were hearings.
Divorce papers.
Custody filings.
Questions about whether Alexander would contest jurisdiction.
My attorney, Rachel Stern, called me one cold Tuesday morning.
“Something changed.”
I sat at the kitchen table while my mother chopped apples behind me.
“What?”
“Alexander withdrew his emergency motion to compel your return.”
I stared at the gray water beyond the window.
“He did what?”
“He also instructed his attorneys not to challenge your temporary medical relocation.”
Temporary.
That word made me laugh without humor.
“Did he sign the divorce papers?”
“No.”
“Then nothing changed.”
Rachel paused.
“He asked that all evidence regarding the fire be preserved.”
My fingers tightened around my mug.
“What evidence?”
“He didn’t say.”
I knew immediately.
The memory card.
He had watched it.
I had spent weeks deciding whether to leave it.
Part of me had wanted to take it to the police.
Part of me had wanted to destroy it.
In the end, I gave it to his assistant because I knew Alexander better than anyone.
If I accused Olivia, he would defend her.
If a stranger accused Olivia, he would investigate the stranger.
But if I gave him proof after I was already gone, he would have no one left to argue with.
Only the truth.
“Claire?” Rachel said.
“I’m here.”
“He also asked whether he could receive medical updates about the baby.”
“No.”
“I assumed that would be your answer.”
“Not yet.”
“All right.”
I ended the call.
My mother placed a bowl of apple slices in front of me.
“You don’t have to decide everything now.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look like you know.”
I touched my stomach.
At eleven weeks, there was hardly anything to see.
But I felt different.
Protective in a way I had never understood before.
My mother sat across from me.
“Do you still love him?”
I looked at her.
She did not ask accusingly.
That made the question worse.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
I looked away.
“I hate that I do.”
“You can love someone and still know they are unsafe for your heart.”
“I know.”
“You can also stop loving someone slowly.”
“I know.”
“And you can forgive someone without ever going back.”
My throat burned.
“I know.”
She reached across the table and covered my hand.
Three days later, I went to my obstetric appointment.
The clinic was private.
My father had insisted on two security men.
Neither worked for Alexander.
I had checked.
The appointment went well.
The heartbeat was strong.
The doctor smiled as the sound filled the small room.
I cried quietly.
My mother cried loudly.
My father pretended there was dust in his eye when we showed him the ultrasound in the hallway.
For fifteen minutes, I felt almost normal.
Then a man in blue scrubs approached me near the elevator.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
I stopped.
Very few people in Vancouver knew I was using Bennett.
“Yes?”
“I’m with records. There’s an issue with your insurance authorization.”
He held a clipboard.
Something about him felt wrong.
Maybe it was the shoes.
Black leather dress shoes beneath hospital scrubs.
Maybe it was the way his eyes kept moving past me toward the exit.
One of my father’s guards stepped between us.
“Which department?”
The man smiled.
“Records.”
“Name?”
“Kevin.”
“Last name?”
The smile disappeared.
The guard reached for his radio.
The man ran.
He slammed through the stairwell door.
My father’s second guard went after him.
By the time police arrived, he was gone.
The clinic pulled security footage.
The man had entered through a staff entrance using a stolen badge.
He had known my appointment time.
My doctor’s face had turned white.
“This schedule is restricted.”
I did not say what I was thinking.
Alexander.
It had to be Alexander.
Who else could find me that fast?
That night, I called Rachel.
“Tell him to get his men away from me.”
“Claire—”
“Tell him if he sends anyone near my doctor again, I’ll use it in court.”
“I don’t know that it was him.”
“Who else?”
There was a pause.
Then Rachel said, “He asked me to give you a number.”
My entire body went cold.
“No.”
“He said only if you believed you were in danger.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“You just said someone infiltrated your doctor’s office.”
I closed my eyes.
Ten minutes later, I stood alone on the back porch and dialed the number.
Alexander answered before the first ring finished.
“Claire.”
I hated what his voice did to me.
For one second, I was home.
Then I remembered the locked door.
“Get your men away from me.”
His silence lasted half a beat.
“What happened?”
“A man came into my clinic.”
His tone changed instantly.
“Describe him.”
“No. You listen to me. I left because I wanted distance from you.”
“Was he tall?”
“Alexander.”
“Dark hair? Scar near the left eyebrow?”
I froze.
“How do you know that?”
A long silence.
Then he said, “Because he isn’t mine.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“I have one team watching the outer perimeter of the neighborhood. They have never entered your clinic. They have never approached you.”
“You sent men here after I told you not to?”
“Yes.”
My anger flared.
“You don’t get to—”
“Claire, Olivia locked the door.”
The world stopped.
I could hear the ocean beyond the houses.
A car passing on the road.
My own breathing.
Alexander’s voice dropped.
“The access log proves it. Her credential sealed the hallway door one minute before the alarm.”
I could not speak.
He continued.
“Matteo delayed the sprinklers. The fire was intentional.”
My knees weakened.
I sat on the porch step.
“I know about the money,” he said. “I know about the cameras. I know why you made the card.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“I told you something was wrong with her.”
“I know.”
“You said I was jealous.”
“I know.”
“You told me to stop pressuring her in the hospital.”
His breath caught.
“I know.”
“And now you believe me?”
His voice became almost inaudible.
“Yes.”
A tear slid down my cheek.
“Now?”
He did not defend himself.
That hurt more.
“Too late,” he said.
I pressed my fist against my mouth.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “The man at your clinic works for a company connected to Matteo.”
“How do you know?”
“We’ve been tracking him for six days.”
“You knew he was coming?”
“No. If I had, he would never have reached the building.”
That sounded like Alexander.
Cold.
Certain.
Terrifying.
Once, it had made me feel safe.
Now I did not know what it made me feel.
“Do not come here,” I said.
“I won’t.”
“Do not call my doctor.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not send me gifts. Do not send me letters. Do not show up because you think apologizing changes anything.”
“I won’t.”
His obedience unsettled me.
Alexander had spent his entire life taking control.
I had expected threats.
Demands.
A private plane at the airport.
Instead, he said, “I’ll send all evidence through Rachel.”
I swallowed.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“I want you alive.”
My eyes closed.
“And the baby?”
A pause.
“Alive. Safe. With you.”
I hated the tears that came then.
“You didn’t even know.”
“I know.”
“You left us in that room.”
“I know.”
The line went silent again.
Then Alexander said, “Claire, I’m going to tell you one thing, and then I’ll let you go.”
I waited.
“If anyone approaches you claiming I sent them, ask them for the name Daniel.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because no one working for me is allowed to say that name near you.”
I understood.
A code.
“If they say Daniel?”
“They’re lying.”
I almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
Daniel.
The dead man whose final request had become the chain Olivia used to pull my husband away from me.
“Goodbye, Alexander.”
“Claire.”
I stopped.
His voice cracked on my name.
“I’m sorry I believed your survival meant I hadn’t failed you.”
My throat closed.
I ended the call.
The next morning, Rachel sent me the recovered access logs.
The security stills.
A transcript of Olivia and Matteo in the wine cellar.
I read everything.
Twice.
Then a message arrived from an unknown number.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just six words.
Claire, the memory card is not enough.
A second message appeared.
Alexander is hiding the part that makes him guilty.
Then an image loaded.
Alexander.
Matteo.
Standing together outside the mansion.
One week before the fire.
The timestamp was clear.
May you like
Underneath, the sender wrote:
Ask your husband what they were planning.
