Chapter 4 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The intruder disappeared before police arrived.
But they left one thing behind.
A flash drive.
Ethan took it to his office the next morning.
The files contained surveillance footage.
Of me.
For three years.
Leaving restaurants.
Entering work.
Walking home.
Going to the gym.
Even sitting alone in Central Park.
I stared at the screen.
“You knew?”
Ethan's face was pale.
“No.”
“You had private security.”
“They protected the company.”
“They didn't protect me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I thought they did.”
I looked away.
All those years I had thought Ethan didn't notice me.
Someone else had noticed every move I made.
That was worse.
Claire Donovan arrived an hour later.
She brought two police officers and a folder.
She looked at me.
“I'm sorry.”
“You should be.”
She accepted it.
“I know.”
“Were you with Ethan that night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
I believed her.
“Then why did you smell like perfume?”
“Because I hugged Ethan's mother.”
I frowned.
“His mother?”
Claire nodded.
“She was crying.”
“Ethan's mother died when he was twenty.”
Claire looked at Ethan.
Then back at me.
“She died three years ago.”
I froze.
“What?”
Ethan stared at her.
“Don't.”
Claire hesitated.
“What?”
“Don't say things you can't prove.”
Claire placed a document on the table.
“We found a hidden trust.”
The trust beneficiary was not Ethan.
Not me.
Not any Blackwood relative.
It belonged to someone named Rebecca Blackwood.
Ethan's mother.
But the trust had been active for three years after her supposed death.
“This is impossible,” Ethan said.
Claire shook her head.
“No. It's evidence.”
The money had been used to fund investigations into his father's company.
And someone had been withdrawing funds every month.
The recipient name was Emma Hayes.
My maiden name.
I stared.
“That's me.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Did you ever receive money?”
“No.”
Claire pointed to the bank.
“The account was never in your name. Someone created a shell entity.”
“Why?”
“Because they wanted access to you without you knowing.”
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
Then another document appeared.
A medical file.
My mother's.
I went cold.
“What is that?”
Claire looked at Ethan.
He nodded.
Claire answered.
“Your mother was diagnosed with a serious heart condition six years ago.”
I stared.
“She never told me.”
“She was offered treatment through a private foundation.”
“Whose foundation?”
“The Blackwood Foundation.”
Ethan sat down.
“My mother’s foundation?”
Claire nodded.
“Your father established it.”
I felt dizzy.
My mother had received treatment through a charity funded by Ethan's family.
For years.
And nobody told me.
“Why me?” I whispered.
Claire said:
“Because your father was connected to Ethan's father.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Ethan.
“My father was a schoolteacher.”
“That is what you were told.”
The room became silent.
Claire opened another folder.
A photograph fell onto the table.
My father.
Standing beside Ethan's father.
They were younger.
Smiling.
I recognized the location.
Blackwood Holdings.
The date was nineteen ninety-eight.
Before Ethan was born.
Before I met him.
Before the company became what it was.
My father hadn't been a stranger to the Blackwoods.
He had been part of them.
“Who was he?” I asked.
Claire answered carefully.
“He was an internal auditor.”
I looked at Ethan.
“He knew about the fraud.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Claire lowered her voice.
“Your father was presumed dead twelve years ago.”
Twelve years.
The same year Ethan first came into my life.
I remembered the night Ethan met me.
The rain.
The bookstore.
The strange way his father had looked at me when Ethan brought me home.
Maybe none of it had been accidental.
My divorce had suddenly become the least important part of my life.
I was carrying Ethan Blackwood's child.
And apparently, our families had been connected long before we ever met.
Then Ethan's phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
A pause.
“Are you certain?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Send the photo.”
He hung up.
“What happened?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“We found your father's grave.”
I stared.
“You mean he's dead?”
“No.”
May you like
Ethan's voice was barely audible.
“The grave is empty.”
