Chapter 3 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be DeadFor a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The man in the gray suit looked exactly like my father.
Same shoulders.
Same silver hair.
Same habit of holding his left hand slightly behind his back.
My father had been dead for four years.
I had watched his coffin disappear beneath the ground.
I had held my mother's hand through the funeral.
I had identified his belongings.
There was no mistake.
Yet the man standing across the restaurant looked at me with my father's eyes.
Ethan grabbed my wrist.
“Don't turn around.”
I did anyway.
The man was gone.
Vanessa was gone too.
The restaurant door swung shut behind them.
My heart pounded.
“Who was that?”
Ethan didn't answer.
“Ethan.”
“We need to leave.”
“Who was that man?”
He grabbed the compass.
I slapped his hand away.
“No.”
“Claire, listen to me.”
“No. You listen to me.”
My voice rose.
“Who was he?”
People started looking at us.
Ethan lowered his voice.
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
“Our house.”
“No.”
“Please.”
That word stopped me.
Ethan had never said please like that.
He looked frightened.
Not for himself.
For me.
We left the restaurant separately.
I took a taxi.
He followed in his car.
I spent the entire ride staring at the compass.
There was no secret compartment that I could see.
Yet Ethan had recognized it instantly.
Why?
When I got home, the front door was unlocked.
I froze.
I had locked it before dinner.
Every night.
Always.
Ethan pulled up behind me.
“Stay here.”
He walked inside.
A second later, he shouted my name.
I ran in.
Our living room was destroyed.
Drawers emptied.
Books thrown across the floor.
Closet doors hanging open.
Someone had searched the house.
I turned toward Ethan.
“What were they looking for?”
He stared at the mess.
“You.”
My skin prickled.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone search my house for me?”
He didn't answer.
Then his eyes fell on the bookshelf.
One section was empty.
I walked closer.
My old photo albums were still there.
My jewelry was untouched.
My passport was still in its drawer.
But one thing was missing.
A small black notebook.
I had found it in my father's belongings after his funeral.
I had never opened it.
I hadn't even remembered where I put it.
Apparently someone else did.
“Where's the notebook?” Ethan asked.
I turned.
“How do you know about it?”
He went silent.
“You knew it existed.”
“Claire…”
“You knew.”
He rubbed his face.
“Your father left something behind.”
“What?”
“A record.”
“What kind of record?”
“Names. Accounts. Transfers.”
My stomach dropped.
“Transfers?”
He nodded.
“Your father was involved in something before he died.”
“Involved in what?”
He looked toward the window.
“Money.”
I stared at him.
“How much?”
He didn't speak.
“How much, Ethan?”
“Thirty-two million dollars.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My father had spent his entire life telling me he hated rich people who stole from ordinary families.
Now my husband was telling me my father had been involved in thirty-two million dollars of missing money.
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn't.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
I stepped backward.
“And Vanessa?”
He looked at me.
“She works for the people who want that notebook.”
A terrible thought crossed my mind.
“Then why is she sleeping with you?”
His face tightened.
“She wasn't sent to seduce me.”
My voice shook.
“Then why?”
“She was sent to watch me.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“Watch you for whom?”
Before he could answer, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I picked up.
A man's voice whispered:
“Your father didn't die four years ago.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
“You were told he was dead.”
The caller breathed slowly.
“He isn't.”
Then the line went dead.
I looked at Ethan.
His face had gone completely white.
“You knew,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes.
May you like
“Yes.”
And suddenly my husband's affair became the least frightening part of my marriage.
