Chapter 2 - I didn't sleep.Soldiers learn how to function without sleep.

You learn to rest with one eye open.

You learn to eat while moving.

You learn that exhaustion is a condition, not an excuse.

By 4:30 a.m., I was sitting in my old truck parked two blocks from the house.

The folded note was on the passenger seat.

My laptop was open.

The first thing I did was pull every bank statement from the last four years.

There were hundreds of transactions.

Most were ordinary.

Rent.

Utilities.

Transfers.

Payments to Gwen.

Then I found the pattern.

Every time I transferred money into our joint account, it disappeared within forty-eight hours.

At first, I thought Gwen had been paying bills.

Then I noticed where the money went.

Margaret Hayes.

Paige Hayes.

Private medical providers.

Luxury retailers.

Mortgage payments on properties I didn't recognize.

And one recurring company.

Blackridge Medical Services.

$4,800.

$6,200.

$9,000.

$3,700.

The amounts changed.

The recipient never did.

I copied everything onto a drive.

Then I began checking property records.

My mother owned the house.

That wasn't unusual.

I had purchased it years ago, but when Gwen and I married, I placed the property under my mother's name because my deployment had made paperwork difficult.

I hated myself for remembering that.

I had trusted her.

Then I found three more properties.

A lake house.

A condominium.

A commercial building downtown.

All purchased while I was overseas.

All connected to the family trust.

I leaned back.

My mother had built an empire with my money.

But why?

The sun was beginning to rise when Gwen appeared outside.

She stood on the sidewalk alone.

I got out.

She looked around before approaching.

“You shouldn't be here.”

“Neither should you.”

She stared at the truck.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I'm not very good at sleeping anymore.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

I noticed the bruise near her wrist.

“What happened?”

She pulled down her sleeve.

“Nothing.”

“Gwen.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She looked away.

“They'll hurt you.”

“Who?”

“My mother?”

She didn't answer.

“Paige?”

Still silence.

“Someone else?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“David, you don't understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

She looked at me.

“They told me you were dead.”

My chest tightened.

“What?”

“They said you died two years ago.”

“Who told you?”

“Your mother.”

I stared at her.

Gwen continued.

“She said you had been killed overseas.”

“But I called you.”

“I know.”

“No. I called every month.”

“I never received them.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

“They blocked your number.”

I felt my pulse in my throat.

“I sent letters.”

“I never saw them.”

“I sent photographs.”

“I never saw those either.”

The pieces began moving.

My deployment logs showed communications.

Someone had intercepted everything.

Someone had convinced Gwen I was dead while continuing to receive my money.

“Why didn't you contact the military?”

“I tried.”

“What happened?”

“My mother told me there had been an investigation.”

I stared at her.

“She said you were classified.”

Gwen wiped her eyes.

“She told me if I talked to anyone, people would come for me.”

“What people?”

“I don't know.”

“You have to know something.”

She hesitated.

Then she whispered:

“Blackridge.”

My blood turned cold.

“What's Blackridge?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“Come with me.”

We walked into a small coffee shop across the street.

The place was nearly empty.

Gwen sat in the corner.

She kept her voice low.

“Three years ago, your mother said I was sick.”

“I know.”

“I wasn't.”

“Then what happened?”

“She started giving me pills.”

“What pills?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

“She said they would help with anxiety.”

My fists tightened.

“You were drugged?”

“I think so.”

“Think?”

“I stopped feeling like myself.”

She rubbed her hands together.

“I couldn't sleep unless I took them. I couldn't eat without getting sick. Sometimes I couldn't remember entire days.”

I stared at her.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

She gave me a broken smile.

“Because I thought you were dead.”

I couldn't speak.

She continued.

“One day I found documents in your mother's office.”

“What documents?”

“Medical records.”

“For you?”

“Yes.”

“Under what name?”

She looked at me.

“Not mine.”

I leaned forward.

“What name?”

She swallowed.

“Emily Carter.”

The name meant nothing.

Then she reached into her purse.

She pulled out a photograph.

It showed a woman in a hospital bed.

At first I didn't recognize her.

Then I noticed the face.

It was Gwen.

Her hair was short.

Her body was thinner.

And there was a bruise around her neck.

“What is this?”

“They told me it was from a fall.”

“Who?”

“Blackridge.”

I studied the picture.

On the bottom corner was a date.

Three years ago.

And beside it was a signature.

Dr. Adrian Cross.

I knew that name.

I had heard it before.

Not from Gwen.

From military intelligence.

Dr. Cross had been involved in private behavioral research contracts.

Some of those contracts had been investigated.

Then classified.

Then buried.

I looked at Gwen.

“Why was a private medical company treating you?”

“I don't know.”

“Why would my mother pay them?”

“I don't know.”

“Why did she tell you I was dead?”

Gwen lowered her voice.

“Because she needed me to sign something.”

“What?”

“Your estate documents.”

The world seemed to stop.

“What estate documents?”

“She said your death meant your military benefits would be transferred.”

“How much?”

“I never saw the amount.”

“What did you sign?”

“A power of attorney.”

My jaw clenched.

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“And what did they do with it?”

“I don't know.”

My phone vibrated.

A message.

Unknown number.

STOP DIGGING.

I showed Gwen.

Her face drained of color.

Another message appeared.

YOUR WIFE IS NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO WAS WATCHING.

I looked through the coffee shop window.

Across the street, a black SUV was parked.

Engine running.

A man sat behind the wheel.

Watching us.

I stood.

“Stay here.”

“David?”

I walked toward the door.

The SUV pulled away.

I ran outside.

Too late.

My phone vibrated again.

This time there was an image.

A photograph of me standing outside the house.

Taken ten minutes earlier.

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Underneath it were three words.

WELCOME HOME, SOLDIER.