CHAPTER 5: YOUR WIFE IS ALIVE
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Rebecca's words hung in the basement like smoke.
Your wife is alive.
I stared at the basement door.
My mind rejected the sentence before my heart could even process it.
My wife had been dead for six years.
I had identified her body.
I had attended her funeral.
I had watched a coffin lowered into the ground.
I had stood beside Emily while she placed a white flower on her mother's grave.
She was dead.
She had to be dead.
“Open the door!” Rebecca screamed.
Mark grabbed my shoulder.
“Don't.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“We don't know if that's really Rebecca.”
The pounding stopped.
Silence.
Then Rebecca spoke again.
“It is me.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know you don't trust me.”
“You're right,” I shouted.
“I know.”
“Then tell me something only Rebecca would know.”
Silence.
A few seconds passed.
Then she said:
“You hate tomatoes, but you pretend you don't when Emily puts them on your plate because you don't want her to know you dislike vegetables.”
My heart tightened.
Mark looked at me.
She knew.
Rebecca continued.
“You sleep with the hallway light on when you think Emily is having nightmares.”
I swallowed.
“And you still keep your wife's blue scarf in the top drawer of your bedroom.”
I froze.
Nobody knew about the scarf.
Not even my mother.
It had belonged to my wife.
I had kept it hidden because I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
“Open the door,” Rebecca whispered.
I reached for the handle.
Mark stopped me.
“Wait.”
“What?”
He pointed at the wall.
The elderly woman was gone.
She had disappeared without making a sound.
The basement was suddenly empty except for us.
I looked toward the stairs.
“Where did she go?”
Mark shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Another voice came from above.
A man's voice.
“Search the house.”
My blood turned cold.
The people had entered.
Mark whispered:
“We're trapped.”
I looked at the metal box.
Photographs.
USB drive.
My wife's letter.
And one sentence that had just destroyed everything I thought I knew.
Your wife is alive.
I grabbed the envelope.
“We're leaving through another way.”
“There is no other way.”
I looked around.
Then I remembered the old furnace.
I moved it.
Behind it was a narrow opening.
A tunnel.
Mark stared.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“Apparently this family built escape routes.”
We crawled inside.
The tunnel was barely wide enough for one person.
Cold water dripped from the ceiling.
Behind us, the basement door crashed open.
“Check downstairs!”
Flashlights swept across the room.
I pulled Emily's photograph from the box and held it tightly.
As we crawled, I noticed something strange.
The photographs weren't random.
They were arranged by date.
The first showed my wife as a teenager.
The second showed Rebecca.
The third showed Victor.
Then Emily.
Then me.
I stopped.
There was a photograph of me standing outside my own house.
Taken from across the street.
The date was printed underneath.
Four months before I met Rebecca.
Someone had been watching me long before I knew she existed.
Mark whispered:
“Keep moving.”
We reached the end of the tunnel.
A metal hatch opened into the forest.
Rain poured over us.
We crawled outside.
Then Rebecca emerged behind us.
Her wedding dress was torn.
Mud covered the hem.
Blood ran down one side of her forehead.
I turned toward her.
“Where is Emily?”
“With your mother.”
“Is she safe?”
“For now.”
I stepped toward Rebecca.
“You said my wife is alive.”
Rebecca nodded.
“She is.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at her.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don't care what you believe.”
She looked toward the house.
“They found out I was trying to stop them.”
“Who?”
“The people who control Blackridge.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Rebecca's eyes filled with fear.
“Your wife.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Not the woman you remember.”
She took a breath.
“The woman who survived.”
My mind struggled to follow.
“Explain.”
Rebecca looked at the photograph in my hand.
“Your wife discovered that Emily wasn't an ordinary child.”
My jaw tightened.
“She was seven years old.”
“I'm not talking about intelligence.”
“Then what?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Her blood.”
I remembered Emily's words.
Don't let them take her blood.
“What is special about it?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Her mother was part of a medical study.”
“What study?”
“Genetic compatibility.”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
“It does to them.”
“Who are they?”
Rebecca looked directly at me.
“People who believe certain children can be used to cure diseases.”
I shook my head.
“This sounds insane.”
“I know.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
“Because your wife believed me.”
I stopped.
Rebecca reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a small photograph.
She handed it to me.
It showed my wife standing beside Rebecca.
Both were younger.
Both were crying.
On the back was a date.
The night my wife supposedly died.
I looked at Rebecca.
“You were there.”
She nodded.
“Tell me what happened.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“Your wife called me three hours before the accident.”
“Why?”
“She said she had discovered something.”
“What?”
“She had found the original birth records.”
My pulse quickened.
“Emily's?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
Rebecca's voice dropped.
“They said Emily had been registered under another name.”
I stared at her.
“What name?”
Rebecca didn't answer.
“Tell me.”
“She wasn't born where you think she was.”
“Where was she born?”
Rebecca looked at the house.
“At Blackridge.”
My stomach dropped.
“That place didn't exist when Emily was born.”
“It did.”
“No.”
“It was operating under another name.”
I shook my head.
“This is impossible.”
Rebecca stepped closer.
“Your wife found out that Emily was part of an experiment.”
I stared at her.
“And she tried to get her out.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Victor found out.”
“And?”
“He came after them.”
“Did he kill my wife?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who did?”
She looked at me.
“Your wife disappeared.”
“That's not an answer.”
“She escaped.”
My breathing stopped.
“She escaped with Emily?”
“No.”
“Then with who?”
Rebecca's lips trembled.
“She escaped alone.”
I felt something crack inside me.
“You're saying my wife abandoned her daughter?”
“No.”
Rebecca looked away.
“She thought Emily was safer with you.”
I remembered the funeral.
The empty years.
The photographs.
The nights Emily cried for her mother.
I had believed my wife died protecting us.
Now I didn't know what to believe.
“Why didn't she come back?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Because she was being hunted.”
“By whom?”
Rebecca didn't answer.
Then a gunshot exploded through the trees.
The bullet struck the tree beside my head.
I dropped instinctively.
Mark pulled me down.
“Get down!”
Another shot.
Rebecca screamed.
We crawled behind a fallen tree.
Three silhouettes appeared near the old house.
One of them stepped forward.
Victor.
He held a gun.
But he wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at Rebecca.
“You should have stayed out of this,” he shouted.
Rebecca screamed back:
“You killed her!”
Victor smiled.
“No.”
He slowly raised the weapon.
“She killed herself.”
Rebecca's face twisted with rage.
“You're lying!”
Victor's eyes moved toward me.
“Ask your bride what happened six years ago.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
“Rebecca?”
She said nothing.
“Tell me.”
Still nothing.
I grabbed her arm.
“What happened the night my wife disappeared?”
Rebecca finally looked at me.
Tears rolled down her face.
“I was there.”
“You said you didn't know.”
“I lied.”
“What did you do?”
“I drove the car.”
My stomach dropped.
“You were driving?”
She nodded.
“I was supposed to take your wife somewhere safe.”
“What happened?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“She trusted me.”
“And?”
“I betrayed her.”
The forest went silent.
Victor lowered his gun.
“Now you know.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“I didn't kill your wife.”
She swallowed.
“But I took her to the people who did.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where is she now?”
Rebecca whispered:
“I don't know.”
Victor laughed.
Then he shouted:
“But I do.”
He raised his weapon.
“She's been waiting for you.”
I stared at him.
“Where?”
Victor smiled.
Then he said a location I hadn't heard in six years.
The cemetery.
My wife's grave.
“Go there,” he called.
“And you'll finally meet the woman who has been pretending to be dead.”
Another gunshot rang out.
Rebecca grabbed my hand.
“Run!”
We disappeared into the trees.
But as we ran, my phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
Just one sentence.
Don't believe Rebecca.
Then another message arrived.
A photograph.
My wife's grave.
And standing beside it was a woman in a dark coat.
Her face was turned away.
But I knew the shape of those shoulders.
The way she stood.
The way she held her hands.
My heart stopped.
Because I had seen that posture thousands of times.
It was my wife.
May you like
And beneath the photograph were four words:
SHE'S WAITING FOR YOU.
