Chapter 7

Rachel agreed to meet Detective Ortiz at a secure location.

She refused to come to the hospital.

"Ethan knows I am alive," she said. "But he doesn't know where I live."

I stared at the phone.

"What happened to your baby?"

Silence.

Then Rachel answered.

"I lost him at thirty-three weeks."

My father closed his eyes.

"How?"

"Ethan said I fell."

The same lie.

The same method.

The same carefully prepared story.

Rachel continued.

"I woke at the bottom of the basement stairs. My ribs were broken. My baby was gone. Ethan told everyone I had been drinking."

"Had you?"

"No. I had stopped drinking coffee because it made me nauseous."

Her voice cracked.

"Margaret brought photographs of empty wine bottles to the hospital. She said she found them hidden in my closet."

"They planted evidence," Detective Ortiz said.

"Yes."

"Did you report the assault?"

"I tried. Dr. Hawthorne told the police I was experiencing postpartum psychosis. Ethan claimed I had thrown myself down the stairs."

My skin turned cold.

"Dr. Hawthorne treated you too?"

"He signed the commitment papers."

Rachel had spent four months in a psychiatric facility.

During that time, Ethan filed for divorce, emptied their joint account, and moved away.

She had escaped his control only because a nurse noticed that her medication levels were dangerously high.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"Seven years ago."

Long before I met him.

Long before my mother died.

Long before he stood at the altar and promised to protect me.

"Why didn't a background check show your marriage?"

"Ethan used his middle name. His records were changed after he joined a special administrative unit."

My father frowned.

"Records don't simply disappear."

"Daniel Reeve made them disappear."

Detective Ortiz looked at us.

Her former partner.

The internal affairs officer Ethan had mentioned.

Rachel sent copies of her marriage certificate, hospital records, and photographs.

In the wedding picture, Ethan looked younger.

But Margaret looked exactly the same.

Pearls.

Perfect posture.

A hand resting possessively on her son's shoulder.

My father studied the documents.

"Why contact us now?"

"Because I saw Claire's face on television."

My stomach tightened.

"What television?"

My father exchanged a look with Detective Ortiz.

He had tried to keep the news from me.

A local station had reported that an Army captain was accused of abusing his pregnant wife before escaping police custody.

My name had not been released officially.

But someone leaked it.

The news had already spread online.

Photographs from my wedding.

Pictures of the mansion.

My mother's obituary.

Comments calling me unstable.

Comments calling Ethan a hero.

Comments claiming I had fabricated the abuse for money.

His story was already being built.

Even while he was hiding.

Rachel's voice hardened.

"He did the same thing to me. He used strangers to bury the truth before I could speak."

Detective Ortiz asked her to provide a formal statement.

"I will," Rachel said. "But there is something Claire must find first."

"What?"

"Your mother kept a red journal."

My father leaned toward the phone.

"How do you know Evelyn?"

"I met her."

The room became silent.

Rachel explained that my mother had contacted her four years earlier.

Evelyn had discovered that Ethan had been married before.

She found Rachel through an old insurance record and drove to meet her.

Rachel told her everything.

The pregnancy.

The fall.

The false diagnosis.

The missing money.

"My mother knew before Ethan proposed?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't she warn me?"

"She planned to."

Rachel said my mother had gathered evidence in a red leather journal.

She documented dates, bank transfers, names, and conversations.

She intended to confront Ethan, then take the information to federal investigators.

She died two days later.

I felt as though the hospital bed had dropped beneath me.

My mother had not been meeting Ethan to plan his proposal.

She had been meeting him to end it.

"Where is the journal?"

"Evelyn told me she hid it where Richard gave her his first promise."

My father became pale.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

He stood abruptly.

"Our first house."

The small cottage in Virginia where my parents lived before I was born.

My father had proposed to my mother on the back porch.

The property had remained empty since her death.

He looked at Detective Ortiz.

"If Ethan knows Rachel spoke to Evelyn, he may know about the journal."

Detective Ortiz reached for her phone.

"We'll send local police."

"No," my father said. "Not until we know who can be trusted."

"You cannot go alone."

"I won't."

His eyes moved toward me.

I understood immediately.

"No."

"Claire—"

"No. You are not leaving us."

"I need to find what your mother hid."

"Ethan is out there."

"Which is exactly why we need evidence that reaches beyond his escape."

My eyes filled with tears.

"I just got you back."

He took my hand.

"And I am not going anywhere permanently."

"You can't promise that."

"No."

He touched the locket around my neck.

"But I can promise I will not stop protecting you because I am afraid."

Detective Ortiz arranged a small team she trusted.

Before leaving, my father visited Evelyn in the neonatal unit.

A nurse later wheeled me to the glass wall.

My daughter lay inside an incubator, a tiny breathing tube beneath her nose.

My father placed his palm against the glass.

"Your grandmother left us a map," he whispered. "I'm going to follow it."

He kissed my forehead.

Then he left.

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Three hours later, Detective Ortiz received a call.

The cottage was burning.